Unromantic Ideal
by Morte Rouge
Summary: Sequel to "Blythe Spirit". After a stormy seven-year acquaintance, it seems Anne and Gilbert are best friends - kindred spirits. But who would have thought that this time GILBERT would be the one to ruin their camaraderie? Updated every Sunday.
1. A Broken Silence

**Hallo, all!**

**Since the end of _Blythe Spirit_, I've created a LiveJournal exclusively for my FanFiction, etc., username Blytheauthoress. The _Blythe_ illustrations and more can be found there.**

**When I first published Chapter One of ****_Blythe_ ****in February, I had no idea that it would be as successful as it seems to have been, let alone that I would be typing this, the preface to a second story. But here we go again, back into Gilbert's brain—er, back into Avonlea, I mean.**

**Unromantic Ideal**** is essentially the Redmond years, so if you didn't much like **_**Anne of the Island**_**, you're in for a rough time for the next four or five months. Especially as it is my favorite book in the series. :D**

**But I **_**know**_** you prefer the novels to the let's-mesh-books-two-through-four-into-an-entirely-inaccurate second movie, right? Of course!**

**And…we're off!**

_**Chapter One: A Broken Silence**_

_I don't wanna run away,_

_But I can't take it, I don't understand:_

_If I'm not meant for you, then why does my heart tell me that I am?_

_Is there any way that I could stay in your arms…?_

-Daniel Bedingfield, _If You're Not the One_

Jennifer Blythe let out her breath with a _whoosh_ as she leaned on Gilbert's trunk lid. The silly boy, having finished his packing…somehow or other…had left it sprawling open on the floor, and it was full to the bursting point. She pushed harder, but the trunk would NOT close.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she raised her voice. "Gil? Come in here and help me with this?"

"Coming, mother!" Gilbert came bouncing up the steps, full of good cheer. He hadn't seen Anne since the fateful day he had given her his opinion of _Averil's Atonement_, but his decision to cling tenaciously to his love for her had lifted his spirits to such an alarming state that his mother half expected him to float clean up into the air.

Fortunately, Gilbert was still corporeal enough to clamber on top of his trunk and sit firmly on top, cramming the brass clasps into place. "There." Rising, he stood back to admire his trunk. There was something so…so _exciting_ about a packed bag…the feeling that one was about to go off to places unexplored, and to encounter adventures undreamed of.

He picked up his leather satchel and dumped it unceremoniously upon the trunk. He would take the satchel on the train with him. His school things were in his trunk but he had put into the satchel _A Tale of Two Cities_, by Charles Dickens, which he was reading; and another book, which had just been published by a Robert Louis Stevenson, called _Treasure Island…_in case Gilbert got bored of _A Tale of Two Cities_, which was usually the case. There were also a blank book to sketch or write interesting things in—a sort of unofficial, irregular journal; a lead pencil, since one could not really safely manage a bottle of ink on the train; a sweater; some apples; his pocketbook…with a certain pink crêpe rose tucked into the side pocket, to remind him always of what he was fighting for.

"Where are you going, Gilbert?" asked his mother, absently straightening his tobacco-stripe quilt.

"Post office. Be back in a few minutes." Gilbert drew from the satchel a letter which he had been intending to post to a Queen's friend.

At the post office Gilbert mailed his letter without incident or mishap, and began his trek back home through the woods. He was just about to enter a small glen when a familiar voice assailed his ears.

"Me?" Anne was saying. "I'd be honored to accept this dance."

What was Anne—or, rather, _who_ was she talking to?

"You have lovely starry violet eyes," murmured a husky voice.

His confusion was complete. As Gilbert entered the clearing, his boyish face lit up with a grin as he watched Anne waltzing about alone, carrying on a conversation with an imaginary partner.

"Why, thank you! You can call me Cordelia!

"Cordelia, you have an _exquisite_ rose-leaf complexion." Anne punctuated her imaginary suitor's compliments with an exuberant twirl—which brought Gilbert right into her line of vision and she stumbled and stopped, mortified.

Gilbert turned to the empty air beside Anne, as though he could see her imaginary partner. "If you'll excuse me—I have an account to settle with this young lady. Anne," he addressed her, "look. About the other day—I know you probably don't want to hear this again, but I'm sorry if I—"

"No, Gilbert." Holding out a hand to him, she smiled and said seriously, "I am the one who should be sorry. I…realize now that you were only being the good, true friend that you always are to me. You know I've never received personal criticism well."

"Of course I do," Gilbert chuckled, relieved. "I've never regarded carrots the same way since I was thirteen."

Anne laughed aloud; her high, sylvan laugh, which made people look 'round to see where the faeries were. "Shall we take one of our rambles through the woods?"

"First," requested Gilbert, holding his own hand out politely, "would you care to…?" The question died away on his lips as Anne, with a mysterious expression, took his hand and curtsied over it, as he bowed.

Though they had no music and no way of keeping time save for their feet, Gilbert and Anne moved together with an easy lightness and levity which their dancing together had never possessed before. Gilbert could not help but look fixedly down upon his graceful—not to mention beautiful—partner, and Anne blushed under his gaze, and stumbled again.

"I'm sorry, Gil. I must have two left feet.

"Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too, by the way," she continued inconsequentially, as they walked on; "I just received a letter from her. Isn't that splendid? I hoped she would, but I didn't think her father would consent, even if she _did_ get the Vocal Talent scholarship back at Queen's. He has, however, and we're to board together! I feel that I can face an army with banners—let alone all the professors of Redmond in one fell phalanx—with chums like you and Priscilla by my side!"

"I think we'll like Kingsport," Gilbert reassured her, though he was a little disturbed by the subject change. "Charlie says it's a nice old burg, and has the finest natural park in the world. I've heard the scenery in it is magnificent."

"I wonder if it will be…if it _can_ be…any more beautiful than this," sighed Anne pensively, gesturing about at the golden fields and purple glooms of woods they were traversing…not to mention Green Gables away in the distance.

"I think," suggested Gilbert, "that it will be _just as beautiful_…but in an old-city sort of way, not the calm, magical, Island way our beloved P.E.I. has."

Anne looked at Gilbert with new admiration in her eyes. "I never thought of it that way. It makes me feel a little better." She laughed sadly. "As you can see, I'm homesick even a few days _before_ we've left."

Upon the bridge that spanned Barry's Pond, Anne ceased speaking abruptly and leaned her elbow on the railing, resting her cheek in her hand while her other hand idly trailed circles over the knots in the wood. She sighed deeply.

Gilbert waited a few minutes, admiring the scenery. "You are very quiet, Anne."

"I'm afraid to speak or move…for fear that all this wonderful beauty will vanish…just like a wonderful dream…or a broken silence." He words were barely above a breath.

_Wonderful beauty._ It was that, Gilbert thought happily.

The silence was at first comfortable, but Gilbert was amazed to find that suddenly it bore down on him, crushing him with its oppressive weight.

_Say something._

_Say IT._

IT?

_Say what you want to say…what she needs to hear…what would make you both happy to have settled just before you leave for college together…in the assurance that it will not be the last thing you do hand in hand!_

Gilbert's heart thrilled with a quiet intensity at this idea.

What better place to speak to Anne about his love for her than just above the place where he had rescued her as a Lily Maid?

Gilbert took a deep breath.

Tenderly taking Anne's beautiful slender hand in his own, he said, softly but excitedly, "Anne…I—"

"I must go home," interrupted Anne, freeing her hand from Gilbert's and using both to pick up her skirts as she stepped smartly away, down the Green Gables side of the bridge. "Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will be in some dreadful mischief by this time.

"Davy is still getting into mischief," continued Anne, as Gilbert strode along beside her, abashed. "Not as much as before, but still, it's enough to turn Marilla's hair white. I'm surprised it hasn't yet. Mrs. Lynde says Davy is a holy terror, and Marilla says there's no 'holy' about it. I do love him, despite all his faults, for there is something endearing about people who need you, don't you think?"

"Well, I—" Gilbert was having trouble getting a word in edgewise.

"I'm afraid I only love your Dora as much as I ought. She is very well-behaved of course, and docile and mannered and a perfect angel. But as I was never such a perfect soul, I can't see how she can _do_ it! Especially with a brother like Davy!"

"_Let ME get a word in EDGEWISE once in a while before I PITCH YOU!"_ The memory teased Gilbert's mind so cruelly that he almost missed Anne's hasty "GoodnightandgoodbyeGilbertseeyouinafewdays!" before she bolted into Green Gables like a rabbit into its safe hole.


	2. Apples and Aspirations

**Poll results can be found at my LiveJournal_, Blytheauthoress._**

**September's poll: Which two desserts from the _Anne _books would you most like to know the recipe for?**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Two: Apples and Aspirations**_

_"You like me, right?...Better than any of the other guys you know?"_

_"Yes," I sighed._

_"But that's all," he said, and it wasn't a question..."That's okay, you know. As long as you like me the best. _And _you think I'm good-looking—sort of. I'm prepared to be annoyingly persistent."_

-Stephenie Meyer, _New Moon_

It was late afternoon, the day before Gilbert, Charlie, and Anne were to leave for Kingsport; and a sense of uneasy excitement hung over the Cuthbert, Blythe and Sloane households like a swiftly-gathering black raincloud.

But rainclouds were far from Gilbert's mind today. He calmly traversed the bridge…where the disaster had taken place only two days previously…and went through the Haunted Wood with neither the panic which had accompanied him as an impressionable schoolboy, nor the frenzy which had caused him to tear about the place when Dora was missing. Anne met him at the door to Green Gables.

"You look tired, Anne!" he exclaimed, noting the somewhat pained look of her eyes and the pinched-up feeling around Anne's face that was not usually her wont. Anne allowed herself a wan smile.

"I _am_ tired," she admitted, stifling a yawn. "And worse than that, I'm disgruntled. I'm tired because I've been packing my trunk, and sewing, all day and all night; but I'm disgruntled because six women of Avonlea have been here to say good-bye to me…and every one of the six managed to say something that seemed to take the color right out of life and leave it as gray and dismal and cheerless as a November morning!"

"Spiteful old cats!" said Gilbert emphatically, having been visited by those same six or seven busybody housewives in the last week…the same housewives which Charlie Sloane had been telling Gilbert, scarcely an hour ago, of being terrorized by.

"Oh, no, they aren't, and _that_ is just the trouble!" protested Anne. "If they _had_ been 'spiteful cats' I wouldn't have minded them…But they are all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me and whom I like, and that is why what they said, or hinted, had such undue weight with me." Anne sighed. "You see, they _let_ me see they thought I was crazy—going to Redmond and trying to take a B.A., and ever since then I've been wondering if I _am_.

"Mrs. Peter Sloane, for example, sighed and said she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through…and _at once_ I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the end of my third year; Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful lot to put in four years at Redmond; and I felt all over me that it was unpardonable of me to squander Marilla's money and my own on such a folly! Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn't let college spoil me, as it did some people; and I felt in my bones that the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most insufferable creature, thinking I knew it all, and looking down on everything and everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. Elisha Wright said she understood that Redmond girls, especially those who belonged to Kingsport, were 'dreadful dressy and stuck-up', and she guessed I wouldn't feel much at home among them; and I saw myself, a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl, shuffling through Redmond's classic halls in copper-toed boots."

"But surely you don't _really_ care for what they said!"

"We-ell…" Anne hesitated.

"You _know_ how narrow their outlook on life is," continued Gilbert, seeing that Anne was weakening. "To anything they have never done is _anathema maranatha_! It is only that you are the first Avonlea girl who has ever gone to college, so they have their doubts."

"I know…but _feeling_ that they are right is so different from _knowing _they are wrong," lamented Anne. "My common sense tells me all you say, but there are times when common sense has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of my soul. Really, after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the heart to finish packing!"

"You're just tired, Anne," Gilbert maintained, putting a (more or less) platonic arm around her shoulders. He was exceedingly gratified to see that she did not shake him off. "Come on, just forget it all for an hour or so; and take a walk with me, a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh…there should be something there I want to show you."

"Should be?!" laughed Anne. "Don't you know if it is there?"

"No…I only know it _should_ be, from something I did there in spring. Come on—we'll pretend we are two schoolchildren again; and we'll go 'the way of the wind'."

Though they clasped each other's hands as they ran off…like two children would, _of course_…Gilbert made sure that he stayed in the role of teasing schoolboy…not lovesick swain, as, he remembered ruefully, he had so effectively acted mere days before.

"The wood really _is _haunted now—by old memories," exclaimed Anne, as they dashed through the spruce grove. "It seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used to be play here still, and sit by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilights, trysting with the ghosts. Do you know," she continued thoughtfully, "I can never go up this path in the dusk without feeling a bit of the old fright and shiver…There was one especially horrifying phantom which Mrs. Hammond once claimed to have met—the ghost of a murdered child that crept up behind you and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that, to this day, I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind me when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never imagined that baby's ghost into reality—as it were. How angry Marilla and Mrs. Barry were over that affair!"

Now after "Uncle Abe's storm", Gilbert, during a solitary ramble in the woods, had found an apple tree—old, venerable, but badly damaged by the wind and hail. Gilbert and his father had saved the tree, and Gilbert was almost sure that "his" tree, strong and weathered as it was, would be the only tree in Avonlea this fall to bear apples. Anne would no doubt be thrilled by the story of the tree.

He was not disappointed. "An apple tree—and away back here!" Anne cried delightedly, upon seeing it.

"Yes; a veritable apple-bearing tree, too, even after the storm…" Gilbert's eyes twinkled at the recollection of the "magicking up" of that storm…"here in the midst of pines and birches, and a mile from any orchard!" He explained how he had found and helped heal the tree, and Anne's eyes glowed with admiration.

Gilbert preened…but only when Anne was not looking. "See, it's loaded," he exclaimed then. "They look good, too: tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are green and uninviting." _And sour, too!_

Anne _did_ sigh with the tree's romance. "I suppose it sprang…years ago…from some chance-sown seed—and oh, how it has flourished and held its own here, all alone, among aliens!—the brave, determined thing!"

"Here's a fallen tree with a cushion of moss; sit down Anne, it will serve for a woodland throne." Gilbert scrutinized the tree. "I'll have to climb for some apples, they all grow high. The tree has had to reach up to the sunlight."

In a few minutes, Gilbert, scratched, bruised and triumphant, offered Anne the bigger apple and bit into his only after she had begun to nibble. They were not disappointed in their taste test; for the apples were possessed of a mysterious, almost cinnamon-y tang, with just the slightest hint of something like the taste of cool, clear spring water and…something like the way a birch tree _looked_…interwoven into a melody of flavor.

"The fatal apple of Eden couldn't have had a rarer flavor," was Anne's verdict.

The two "schoolchildren" suddenly looked about and found that it was well past sunset.

"Well, and do you feel as disgruntled as you did when we started out, Anne?" asked Gilbert triumphantly, as they strolled through Lovers' Lane, Gilbert with his hat full of the apples for his mother to make into an interesting pie, and some extra to bring on the train tomorrow; Anne, with her hands full of white irises that she and Diana had transplanted, as young girls, into the Land and which now grew miraculously wild along the road.

"Not I! Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul!" Anne grinned. "I feel that we shall love Redmond, and have a splendid four years there…"

"And after those four years—what?" _Romance?_ added his mind mischievously…as though the second question was not, despite his honest attempt to stop it, already thick in his voice.

Anne seemed to have heard the tone; she replied, a little too quickly…a little too airily… "Oh, there's only another bend in the road. I've no idea what may be around it. I don't _want_ to have. It's nicer not to know."

Gilbert looked at Anne sadly; it was dim now and she could not have seen the expression on his face. Her white gown and queenly, graceful straight bearing reminded him of the flowers she carried in her arms.

_I wonder if I can EVER make her care for me…!_

**Do you know how HORRIBLE it is to write about apples for a great while, and then rush downstairs under the influence of an irresistible temptation for one, only to find that, currently, one has at hand nothing but oranges?!**

**-M.R.**


	3. Kingsport

_**Chapter Three: Kingsport**_

_Ay, now I am in Arden, the more fool I; _

_When I was at home, I was in a better place: _

_But travelers must be content. _

–Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

Dora was of course very sorry that both Anne and her "favorite cousin" were not to be regularly at home again for the next four years…by which time, she would be eleven and "older than my fingers" (since she only had ten)…"but that is no reason to act like Davy, is it?" she asked Gilbert worriedly, as her brother howled with grief in the Green Gables coat closet.

"No," said Gilbert slowly, "I suppose it is not. But you still shouldn't have eaten Davy's breakfast when he wasn't looking, Dora."

"Well, he wasn't eating it himself," Dora defended herself with a comically tragic sigh, "and I guess he deserves it, seeing as he always eats my cake at dessert time!"

The Blythes stopped by then to pick up their son and drive him and Charlie to the station, so Gilbert gave Dora a quick hug, and was surprised when his usually prim and proper little cousin clung to his neck and bestowed upon his cheek a wet kiss…the moisture from which did not originate in her mouth but in her eyes.

"This is going to be fun, won't it, Gil?" queried Charlie amiably, as they drove to Bright River train station.

"Mm," said Gilbert sadly.

At the station Gilbert's mother flung herself at him, weeping; Gilbert had only time to return her hug briefly, be rescued by his father's handshake and gruff "Good-by, Gil," and be dragged by Charlie onto the train to Borden train station just as the wheels began to turn on their tracks.

They traveled by train about 20 miles to Borden, on the southern coast of Prince Edward Island…during which time Gilbert began reading _Treasure Island_ while Charlie talked about, of all things, Redmond's school colors!…from whence the ferry traveled to New Brunswick whence Kingsport was situated.

Charlie immediately became seasick upon the ferry's disembarkment, and Anne (who had driven to the station with Diana) and Gilbert were left to enjoy their last look at P.E.I…for a while, at least…in peace.

"Well," said Gilbert cautiously. "We're off."

"Yes." Anne nodded, wiping her eyes vigorously. "I feel like Byron's 'Childe Harold'—only I suppose it isn't really my 'native shore' that I'm watching—Nova Scotia is _that_, I suppose. But I think one's true native shore should be the land one loves the best, and that's good old P.E.I. for me! I can't believe I didn't always live here…those eleven years before I came seem like a bad dream."

Gilbert, who had of course had a firsthand account of those eleven years, wisely said nothing.

"It's seven years since I crossed on this boat—the afternoon Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown." Anne laughed a little. "I can see myself now, in that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It _was_ a fine afternoon, and how those red island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm crossing the strait again…" Anne's voice broke and she gazed imploringly up at her companion. "Oh, Gilbert! I _do_ hope I like Redmond—and Kingsport—but I'm sure I won't!"

Gilbert stared…actually stared. "Where's all your philosophy gone to, Anne?!"

"It's all submerged," came a mournful voice from beneath the small white hands that pressed against Anne's eyes as though to keep the tears in, "under a great, swamping wave of loneliness—and homesickness! It's so queer, isn't it? Here we've been longing for three years to go to Redmond—and now we're going—and I wish I weren't!" Sniffing, she lowered her hands and smiled weakly at Gilbert. "Never mind. I shall be cheerful and philosophical again…after I have just one good cry. I _must_ have _that_—'as a went'—and I'll have to wait until I get into my boardinghouse bed tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be herself again." She laughed a little, and sighed, and laughed again. "I wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet!"

The subject of the twins was a cheering one, and occupied them until the boat docked and Charlie emerged from belowdecks, looking quite green.

Once in New Brunswick, the three of them walked to the "boat train" station, from whence they could take a train directly into Kingsport.

Though he'd been perfectly fine on the Island train, after being ill on the water Charlie's stomach could not easily tolerate more jolting and after muttering a brief apology, left his bags on the seat next to Anne and departed for the washroom.

Anne stared out dismally at the rainy and grey landscape.

Although by now having also caught Anne's infectious wistfulness, Gilbert took this opportunity of gazing dismally at Anne.

She was no longer the harum-scarum young girl that he had first met, in a pinafore and braids. Anne had grown up, just like the curly-headed boy with the floppy cap, suspenders, and striped shirt that Gilbert himself had been. She now had her hair in an elaborate pompadour, with a black velvet tam perched jauntily atop, and a smart dark suit.

Four years. They would be at Redmond for four years. They had known each other for seven.

How much, wondered Gilbert, settling back in his seat, would they have changed again, by the time their Redmond careers were over?

Gilbert's thoughts went on in this vein for some time, until he was jolted awake as the train stopped.

"Kingsport!"

When had he fallen asleep? Hm.

"Kingsport!"

Well, he was awake now, and they were most definitely _there_. Gilbert stood, yawned, stretched; helped a drowsy Anne out of the cabin, after seizing his own bags.

In years to come, Gilbert would never really be able to recall how exactly all three of them got off of that train. Anne was immediately whisked away by Priscilla Grant, who had arrived almost a week previously; and Charlie said later that he had hired a cab to go to the boys' boarding-house, where they would again share a room, not only to economize but to re-create the Queen's days, even if something, in the form of Moody Spurgeon, was wanting.


	4. Lions and Lambs

_**Chapter Four: Lions and Lambs**_

_Fortune favors the bold. _

–Virgil, _Aeneid _

Ten o' clock the next morning found Redmond crowded with students ready to register for the 1883-4 school year—from bored seniors, to proud juniors, to sophomores who grinned like Cheshire cats upon the new freshmen. Gilbert even found himself wondering despairingly if there was a reason that "sophistication" and "sophomore" began with the same few letters, and made himself stop.

He saw a familiar redhead and her pale blonde companion at the other end of the courtyard, looking much as cowed as Gilbert felt. The same could not be said for Charlie, who was as glib and undisturbed as any Sloane was wont to be.

So far, the familiar faces; Gilbert began to look about, to see if any amiable though strange faces were to be found—and had to stop, in order to avoid meeting the eyes of several young women who were regarding him with a certain interest that involved quirked eyebrows and encouraging smiles…especially one rather pretty girl, with chestnut hair so shiny he could see it glistening under her pink straw hat, big brown eyes, and a wide, crooked mouth.

She _was_ rather pretty. Gilbert even stooped to the silliness of watching her out of the corner of his eyes once she had stopped staring at _him_. As coincidence would have it, she seemed now to be gazing wistfully at Anne and Priscilla. Several times, she even feinted towards them…she was standing alone…as though to approach, extend a friendly hand; but subsided, chewing dismally on her gloved fingertips.

So much for avoidance. Gilbert turned to see if Charlie wouldn't mind Gilbert's strolling off for a second, found that Charlie _had_ disappeared first, and felt himself free to approach the girl, who did not even notice him approaching until he greeted her.

"Hello," said Gilbert amiably.

The girl whirled around. "Oh, hello!" she dimpled, grinning radiantly. "My name is Philippa Gordon…or just Phil. Do call me Phil straight off. I don't really like long stupid names. Philippa is so silly, isn't it? I mean, it only comes from my father's name Philip. I'd've thought my mother would have given me a girl name, like Susan, or Katie, or Melanie. Then my girlfriends could call me Melly, and not Phil, ugh. What's yours? Your name, I mean," she added, when Gilbert did not immediately answer.

He had been totally bewildered by the stream of conversation. "Oh. Gilbert Blythe. Gil, I guess, if we're going to be friends," Gilbert smiled.

"Oh I just know we are. Gil and Phil! how droll it sounds! Do you know, it's just horrible here at registration, isn't it? For the first time since I decided to go to college, I wished I'd stayed at home and gotten married!"

"Oh!" said Gilbert vaguely.

"Yes! Isn't it horrible? The worst of it is, I _could_ have." Philippa swung her handbag around on her wrist. "Ugh—but I've been standing here all alone since I got here and registered. There's a friend I came over with—if I can find him, I'll introduce you—but I just can't bring myself to go up and talk to any one new!"

"Like those two girls over there?" asked Gilbert shrewdly.

"Oh. You saw that." Philippa's pink cheeks grew even rosier. "They look like such nice girls."

"They are," said Gilbert candidly. "I know them; one of them is from my home town. That one is Priscilla Grant, and the other girl is Anne Shirley. We're all from Prince Edward Island."

"The Island, fancy that. I shall have to muster up the courage to speak to them, then—no," putting up a gloved hand, "please, don't 'do me the honor'. I want to meet them by myself.

"Oh here he is!" exclaimed Philippa suddenly, producing a fair-haired boy out of thin air. "Gilbert, this is one of my childhood friends, Geoffrey Gleeson. Geoff, this is my new friend, Gilbert Blythe."

Geoffrey and Gilbert exchanged a warm handshake and even friendlier smile. And though Gilbert did not know it at the time, though most of Philippa's friendship would be occupied with Anne, he had just made two good and lasting friends, both of whom would prove to be more precious than gold for the things they did.

Despite the initial sensation of abject insignificance felt by many and most of the Freshmen, for Gilbert his first year was not entirely "unwept and unsung".

The Arts Rush was a competition throughout Redmond, which was won by the class achieving the highest grades among the B.A.'s at the end of the first semester. For three years straight the Sophomores were always the winners—which, upon reflection, was logical, as they had been at Redmond long enough to "sober up"—but not advanced enough in class to be condescending and lazy about their schoolwork.

However, this year was the exception. Gilbert had had the bright idea, in October, that perhaps they could organize the "Freshies"—rally, have organized studying times, things like that—and beat everyone.

"Imagine!" he explained to the crowd of freshmen that, somewhat embarrassingly, gathered to hear him out on his ideas and plans. "Imagine if this high honor sat on _us_—who are the lowest level, traditionally speaking, at Redmond—and showed the upper-classmen that Freshmen are not just 'fresh off the boat'!"—a term liberally applied to their class; for the upper-classmen were fond of making "fresh" jokes, especially this one, which had been applied to Anne, for being an Islander, with quite disastrous results…of which we will only say, thank goodness there were no slates used at Redmond. "And not only will we have respect and the motivation of triumph for the second half of the year, but, also, good grades, to boot!"

Cheers, whistles, stampings. It was, as aforementioned, somewhat frightening—but Gilbert didn't really care. What mattered to him was that he, a Freshman minnow, was making ripples in the huge pond that was Redmond College.

The spontaneous organization carried through, and when the Freshman class carried off the honorary Redmond-lion-emblazoned banner Gilbert was draped in it and unanimously elected President of their class after New Year's, as well as Captain of the Freshman football team.

And more was to come. At Redmond there was a fraternity that went by the name of Lamba Theta—or "Lambs", for short, and as a joke to the Redmond lion mascot. The passion of this brotherhood was, in fact, making changes at Redmond; and although no Freshman had ever entered its warm congenial circle before, Gilbert was soon begged to enter by means of Arthur Norland, a Junior who had been at Queen's with them, and who had been a sort of second- or third-tier friend to Gilbert—some one whom one meant to get to know better, but never had the time to speak to.

When Gilbert finally, with much laughing and joking, accepted, however, there was a decidedly dangerous gleam in Arthur's eye.

"Because now," said Arthur, "you will have to pass initiation to be truly a member."

"Okay," said Gilbert naively. "So, what do I have to do? Swear an oath? Sign in blood?"

The next day, Philippa Gordon, strolling along sophisticated Spofford Avenue with one of her best friends, stared down the street in amazement, and poked her chum with her parasol. "Queen Anne! What on earth is Gilbert Blythe wearing?!"

Anne looked around. "What?" she queried blankly, peering down the street.

Even from as far away as he still was, Gilbert was able to fully appreciate the transformation of Anne's expression—from puzzled curiosity to alarm.

"Oh, my goodness…" Anne gasped, doubling over with laughter.

Gilbert smiled benignly at passerby as they gaped at him…only about half of them were "Redmondese" and therefore capable of understanding the ritual…and coming level with Anne and Philippa, tipped his bright pink sunbonnet to the astonished ladies. "Good day, Anne…Philippa…"

"…Gil?" Anne wheezed, still breathless, while Philippa looked strongly amused, but in a more contained sort of way. Which was odd, considering it was Philippa.

Gilbert started. "What?" he asked innocently, looking down at his chest. "Have I spilled something down my front…or something?"

"Other than flowered calico?" quipped Philippa, finally beginning to giggle. "No indeed."

"Ah," replied Gilbert nonchalantly, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Well, I really must be going…I said I'd meet Geoff and Charlie at the Rose and Crown in ten minutes. Goodbye." And his apron strings flipped about merrily in the breeze as he strutted past the two girls.

"I hope you don't mind my saying so," said Geoff, a quarter of an hour later, with a smile, as he looked around the restaurant, where many distinguished people, as well as the better-to-do Redmondese, were all eating and/or giving Gilbert curious looks, "but Gil Blythe, I do believe you are well on your way to becoming clinically insane!"

"Oh, that doesn't offend me at all!" laughed Gilbert, as the coffee they had ordered arrived.

"Whatever possessed you to _do_ such a thing!"

"Arthur Norland and the Lambs, actually."

"Oh." Geoff leaned back in his chair. "That's all right, then."

"Well," said Gilbert, "In any event, I seem to have made my mark on this old town."

"Obviously," piped up Charlie, who had just appeared. "I've met dozens of people on the way here who know me as your friend, and asked me how I could have let you do such an odd thing." Charlie paused to hail a server and also ask for coffee; when it arrived, he neglected, by dint of talking, to notice that he had put exactly eight generous sugar cubes into the drink. "I don't see how you could have had the courage to do it; I know I never would."

Gilbert pulled the sugar bowl away before Charlie could go for a ninth cube.

Whereupon Charlie, without looking to see how very pale his coffee had turned, put the cup of sugary, caffeinated sludge to his lips and promptly choked on it.


	5. Parlors, Parks, and Places

_**Chapter Five: Parlors, Parks, and Places**_

_In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;_

_In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. _

–Tennyson, _Locksley Hall_

Gilbert and Charlie often called on "the girls" at their boarding-house, but one of the landladies, Miss Ada Harvey, was so fond of making cushions…"stuffed and embroidered to within an inch of their lives," Anne was constantly complaining…that they crowded the house and became a danger to the "parlor-sitters", as Philippa, Priscilla, Anne, Gilbert, and Charlie came to be known by the rest of the boarders.

Therefore, spring having been present for a month already, a walk in the park by the harbor was proposed.

"And Priscilla and Philippa are both to walk with me," Charlie confided smugly to Gilbert as they entered the park. "Just think of it! Philippa Gordon! the class beauty! Surely now Anne will see that _some people_ appreciate my company."

Gilbert stared as Charlie made his way happily over to the pale blonde and warm brunette. Was Charlie seriously _in love _with Anne? Oh dear. Not just for Gilbert, but for Anne herself, _oh dear_.

Or at least, one could hope…most fervently…that Anne was not conducive to admiring Charlie in return!

"Just listen to 'the abandoned P's,'" said Anne fondly, as they watched Charlie, who was unaware that the "gawky, goggle-eyed Freshie" that the girls and Charlie were making fun of was in fact Charlie himself. "I feel a bit bad for Charlie."

"Oh, don't feel too bad for him," said Gilbert quickly, remembering Charlie's offhand comment earlier.

"Why?" asked Anne innocently, her eyebrows rising. "I thought he was your best friend."

"Of course he is. Never mind," said Gilbert hastily.

Anne's brow seemed at a danger of disappearing entirely into her hair; but she let the remark pass. "The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it?" she sighed happily, "I can say 'silence', finally, because the others are so far ahead. How I love the pines! They seem to strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so happy out here!"

"And so, in mountain solitudes o'ertaken/ As by some spell divine/ Their cares drop from the like the needles shaken/ From out the gusty pine," Gilbert recited.

"Exactly."

"They _do _make our little ambitions seem petty, don't they, Anne?"

"I think," replied Anne, "that if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort."

"I hope no great sorrow will ever come to you, Anne," said Gilbert softly.

Anne looked quickly at him, and said, in a flustered voice, "But there _must_, sometime. Life seems like a cup of glory held to my lips, just now. But there must be some bitterness in it—there is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day." Anne sighed. "Well, I hope I shall be strong and brave to meet it. And I hope it won't be through my own fault that it will come," she added, shuddering; and Gilbert knew that she remembered a Senior who, last week, had been expelled from Redmond for doing something—oh, so very dreadful that even now Gilbert and Charlie would not tell the girls precisely what it _was_. "Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday evening—that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer joy of living, isn't it?"

During this speech, Anne had clasped her friend's hand, looking up into his face imploringly as she spoke, and now Gilbert squeezed her hand comfortingly. "If I had my way, I'd shut everything out of your life but happiness and pleasure, Anne," he reassured her.

"Then you would be very unwise. I'm sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and sorrow—though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that we admit it." Again Anne paled and blushed by turns, and again there was a strange edge to her voice as she spoke. Now, she all but dragged him down the gravel pathway, exclaiming, "Come—the others have got to the pavilion, and are beckoning to us."

In the midst of a brilliant sunset the five young people sat, acutely aware of the beauty in which they were spending their college years.

"Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?" asked Philippa presently, gesturing to William's Island, wherein resided a fort and a lighthouse, the former being the building she referred to. "I don't want William's Island especially, but I'm sure I couldn't get it if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort, right beside the flag. Doesn't he look as if he had stepped out of a romance?"

"Speaking of romance, we've been looking for heather—but of course we couldn't fin any. It's too late in the season, I suppose." Priscilla looked sternly at Charlie, as though it were all his fault.

"Heather! Heather doesn't grow in North America, does it?"

"There are just two patches of it in the whole continent, one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia, I forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch, camped here one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of their beds in the spring, some seeds of heather took root," explained Philippa.

Anne clasped her hands together. "Oh, how delightful!"

It was at this moment that something interesting happened. "Let's go home around by Spofford Avenue," suggested Gilbert. "We can see all 'the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell'. Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in Kingsport. Nobody can build on it unless he's a millionaire, I think."

So far, uninteresting, but then Philippa piped up, "Oh, do! There's a perfectly killing little place I want to show you, Anne. _It_ wasn't built by a millionaire. It's the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It probably _did_ grow—it wasn't built! I don't care for the houses on the Avenue. They're too brand new and plate-glassy. But this little spot is a dream—oh, and its name!—but wait till you see it!"

With everyone's curiosity thus piqued, they proceeded to Spofford Avenue, where the house that "grew" was indeed first to greet them: a small, prettily crafted white house, covered over with russet and scarlet ivy, and green shutters that bespoke Green Gables. And in the garden—for there _was_ a garden, surprisingly, in this avenue of mansions surrounded by regimental lawns and ugly shrubs—were all sorts of pretty, soft "old-fashioned" plants and flowers.

"Oh! it _is_ the dearest place I ever saw! It gives me one of my old delightful funny aches," breathed Anne. "It's dearer and quainter than Miss Lavendar's 'Echo Lodge'."

"It's the name I want you to notice especially. Look, in white letters, around the archway over the gate: 'Patty's Place'. Isn't that killing?—especially on this Avenue of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? Patty's Place, if you please!"

"Have you any idea who Patty is?" asked Priscilla practically.

"Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I've discovered," returned Philippa triumphantly. "She lives there with her niece, and they've lived there for hundreds of years…more or less…maybe a _little_ less, Anne," in response to that girl's nudge. "After all, exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I've also been told that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot again and again—it's really worth a small fortune now, you know, and no wonder—but Patty won't sell under any consideration. And there's an apple orchard behind the house—a _real apple orchard! on Spofford Avenue!_"

"Now I'll end by dreaming about Patty's Place tonight; why, I feel as if I belonged to it," said Anne, in a voice so actually drowsy that one wondered whether she dreamt already. "I wonder if, by any chance, we'll ever see the inside of it…"

"It isn't likely," said Priscilla sharply; of the three girls, she was the one who most often

broke out in fits of practicality.

"No it isn't likely; but I believe it will happen. I have a queer, creepy, crawly feeling—you can call it a presentiment, if you like—that Patty's Place and we will become better acquainted yet."

Thus satisfied, the group dispersed.


	6. The Little Yellow House

**I'm posting early this week because I have a very frantic weekend. **

**And the winners for the September poll were: raspberry cordial and plum puffs. Of course. :) I'll have the recipes up on LiveJournal once I get a chance. Meanwhile, vote for the _Anne of Green Gables_ heroine you would have most liked to be, and enjoy this chapter.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Six: The Little Yellow House**_

"_You know the little blue enamel box that Bertha kept her brooches in…Give it to Anne. Make sure she gets it."…_

_Walter Shirley closed his tired eyes. And died…_

"_The little blue enameled box. Did you find it?" _

"_It was gone," (Bert Thomas) said. "Somebody musta took it."_

…_Bert took the little enamel box and contents to the local pawnshop…then he went to the bootlegger and bought five bottles. _

–Budge Wilson, _Before Green Gables_

"Thank you for coming, Gil," smiled Geoff, as they hoisted their suitcases down the upstairs hallway.

"The pleasure is mine, for your inviting me," Gilbert corrected him, looking around the hallway with happy interest.

Anne had been somewhat appalled when Gilbert had announced that he would not return to Avonlea until July, but when she discovered why…because Geoffrey had invited Gilbert to spend most of June at the Gleesons' house in Bolingbroke...she was absolutely eaten up with envy.

The house was as charming as Patty's Place, and Gilbert wished Anne had been there to see it: painted a cheery, soft yellow. Muslin curtains in every window. Lilacs, and roses, and daffodils…flowers that looked as though they were an established fact, as though they had been there for _years_. Maybe decades.

Geoff was the youngest of five children. He had four older sisters: Mary, Charlotte, Dorothy, and Jenny. Mary and Dorothy were married now, Charlotte was still at home, and Jenny had died of scarlet fever in an epidemic that had struck a year after Geoffrey was born.

The story of Jenny sent a chill down Gilbert's spine. _Scarlet fever in Bolingbroke almost twenty years ago…_

There were many, many Gleesons in Bolingbroke. The Gleesons who were Geoff's parents were Gerald and Jessie Gleeson.

Mrs. Gleeson was thrilled to have one of her son's friends staying with them, and she said so, in a way that made Gilbert feel more comfortable. Surely, Mrs. Gleeson was a kindred spirit.

June in Bolingbroke was full of picnics and beach expeditions, fruits and fun. Two things of true import happened during Gilbert's sojourn with the Gleesons'.

One day Gilbert and Geoff were eating cherries in the kitchen, while Mrs. Gleeson made another basketful of the fruit into preserves.

"I like bright red fruits best," commented Gilbert presently. "Cherries, apples, strawberries, raspberries…They taste twice as good as any other color, don't they?"

"I guess they sort of do!" laughed Geoff. "Gil, you are getting to sound just like that Anne of yours, saying poetry things."

"She's not _my Anne_," Gilbert protested, lingering over the words, however, as he quite liked the sound of them.

"But she will be," said Geoff shrewdly.

Mrs. Gleeson, who was listening, smiled. "What's this? Gilbert is engaged?"

"No," said both boys at the same time, but Geoff ruined the negation by adding, with a wave of a cherry-stained finger, "but if Anne Shirley doesn't watch it, he will be."

Mrs. Gleeson looked up from the boiling cherries. "Shirley, did you say?" she queried, in a low voice.

"I guess it's not a very common name," said Geoff. "But there it is."

Jessie Gleeson forgot about the cherries entirely. She turned to face the boys. "Anne Shirley…?"

"Yes," answered Gilbert Blythe. "Why? Do you know her?"

Jessie passed a hand across her forehead. Did she know Anne Shirley. How could she not?

She remembered things that she had tried to suppress for almost twenty years.

The days that Bertha used to come over, when Walter was teaching at the High School. The two women would share pumpkin tarts and tea.

The day that Bertha burst out crying, saying that she thought she must be dying, that she must have consumption like her mother had had, because she was so drowsy and _ill_. Nauseous.

The day that Jessie had begun knitting a sweater for the Shirley baby…the same day she'd discovered that she was pregnant with Geoffrey, oddly enough.

The day in March that Jessie'd come over to see Bertha, and Joanna Thomas had clutched at her, saying, over Bertha's screams, that it was time for Dr. Bates to come. The day Joanna and Jessie had been "introduced" to Walter and Bertha's new daughter.

Anne Shirley.

"Yes," said Jessie aloud. "I held her the day she was born. I knew her mother. And her father." She looked wonderingly at Gilbert. "But you're from Prince Edward Island. How could you possibly know Anne Shirley?"

"She came to the Island from the Hopetown orphan asylum when she was eleven," explained Gilbert.

_Eleven._ Jessie had to sit down.

The day that Jenny had fallen ill with the scarlet fever.

The day that Walter came to their house, because Bertha was troubled by Jessie's not coming to visit.

The day Jenny…Jessie's favorite of her children…had died. At Jenny's funeral two days later, Jessie would not be present, too weak from the loss to stand.

The day kind and beautiful Bertha Shirley died. Walter followed his wife, after four days of agonized prayers on Jessie's part. Jessie had all but dragged herself to the double funeral, and sat there with the tiny Anne-baby on her lap. Later she would ask Gerald if she could adopt Anne, but Gerald was repulsed by Anne's bright red hair and un-babyish angles.

Joanna had taken the baby in, and Jessie was afraid to visit, because Bert Thomas was the town drunkard.

By the time Mary and Dorothy married, the Gleesons would be doing badly financially, so the five-bedroom house was sold and the four Gleesons left bought and moved into the significantly smaller yellow house.

It was fitting, thought Jessie. She was glad to be the one to have the Shirley house, and sometimes she would be cleaning, or hunting for her handkerchief, and stop, to relive something that had happened in this room, or on that divan.

"I haven't seen Anne since the Thomases moved to Marysville," she admitted.

The statement shouldn't have made sense to Gilbert Blythe, but obviously Anne had told him some of her story herself. "When she was five."

"Precisely," said Jessie Gleeson; then, in a burst of confidence, "I tried to persuade Joanna to give Anne to me. I knew she was using Anne as a servant." Jessie looked intently at this young man, that Fate had brought into their kitchen. "How is she?"

"Well," said Gilbert, "she's at Redmond with me, studying to be a teacher. I'm twenty-one, so Anne is, nineteen, I think. Yes. And she is very tall, and graceful, and—"

"Don't tell me," said Jessie excitedly, thinking of Walter and Bertha. "Coppery red hair. A beautiful nose. Grey/green eyes. Slender as a willow. And," she concluded triumphantly, "a weakness for russets."

"!!" said Gilbert, at the last guess.

"Bertha ate so many of them while she was pregnant with Anne," said Jessie, and smiled at Gilbert. "If you do end up engaged to her, Gilbert Blythe, _please_ bring her to see me."

The other thing that happened was that one rainy summer's day, Gilbert and Geoff, bored out of their wits, ventured into town.

Pawnshops are generally thought of as places of ill repute and contraband, stolen goods. But the Bolingbroke pawnshop was rare: the sort of comfortably crowded, honest place that, still holding almost all of the same items, would years later, be an antiques store.

Geoff was examining eighteenth-century books which he found in the back, while Gilbert meandered at will, eventually stopping before an end-table staggering under the weight of assorted jewelry boxes, still full of whatever contents had come with them.

Very, very few of the boxes were _opulent_. All of them were _tawdry_.

All except one. Gilbert noticed a small, octagonal, blue enamel box away back in a corner of the assortment. Something prompted him to reach for it.

The lid showed a star-shaped flower. A Mayflower?

Anne's favorite flower. Perhaps that was what had led him to this box.

Lifting the lid, there were only a few things: two gold chains, one boasting a teardrop amethyst, the other, a simple pink enamel heart. A simple gold ring, with a tiny diamond set directly into the band. A cameo brooch, with a wreath of pale yellow hair enclosed on the reverse.

The pink heart was what captivated Gilbert. It reminded him of the day in school, that Anne had been forced to sit next to Gilbert. He had offered her a pink candy heart as a peace offering, and she had ground it to powder under her copper-toed boots.

Anne's favorite color was pink, but she could never have a pink dress because of her ruddy hair.

But Gilbert thought that such a small amount of pink, so far from her hair, would not hurt.


	7. Fair Game

_**Chapter Seven: Fair Game**_

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la_

_My oh my_

_Looks like the boy's too shy_

_Ain't gonna kiss the girl_

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la _

_Ain't that sad?_

_It's such a shame, too bad_

_He's gonna miss the girl…_

-_Kiss the Girl_, The Little Mermaid

Returning to Redmond as Sophomores, the "parlor-sitters" agreed unanimously, was decidedly better, because now they were neither top nor bottom, and knew their way around Kingsport.

One day in late October, Gilbert went to the post office to mail a letter home, and found that he had received some mail of his own.

"Roger Stuart!" he exclaimed almost aloud, as he opened the letter, alone in the room he shared with Charlie.

_Gil,_

_Ahoy! How are you? The spirits that be have informed me that you're a Sophomore at Redmond now. I wish I could join you, and have all the same sorts of larks we enjoyed at Queen's, but the fact that I will be in Italy studying architecture by the time you read this puts somewhat of a damper on my even coming up to Kingsport on the weekends._

Gilbert laughed aloud. Good old Roger.

_But speaking of Redmond, I've got a favor to ask of you. You remember I've mentioned my sister, Christine? Well, she's enrolled somewhat late at Redmond—I think she said she's not even going to be attending until the spring—and will be studying music. She doesn't know anyone at all._

_So could you possibly watch out for her when she shows up? Be a friend, take her round, introduce her to girls you know._

_You haven't met Christine, so I'll desciber her to you: tall, with black hair and blue eyes. I swear there's no man alive ever had such a pretty sister to beau about; at least I would, if the others weren't doing it for me. Which is as it should be. But just to warn you off, Gil—Christine's already engaged. I'm sorry to disappoint you, and every other lad at Redmond, but there it is. _

_Then again, I know that you've got your Anne Shirley. _

Why was everyone calling Anne his?

_Just keep every other man away from Christine for me, all right?_

_Find enclosed my hotel's card, so you can write back._

_Your friend,_

_Roger Stuart._

At this interesting moment Gilbert was jarred out of his letter-world by a door slamming. He looked up to see Charlie, damp—there was a thick fog rolling in—and furious.

"Charlie!" exclaimed Gilbert, folding up his letter. "What's the matter?"

Charlie threw himself into a chair and pulled a cushion over his face. "I've never been so insulted in my entire life. That's what has happened."

"Insulted?" asked Gilbert blankly, "by whom?"

"Nsrly," came the reply through the cushion. Then Charlie, perhaps realizing this, sat up and said clearly, "Anne Shirley."

Gilbert stared.

"This is the part where you ask another question," said Charlie sarcastically.

"…oh. Well, what did Anne do to insult you?"

"Refused."

"Refused?

"…Oh! you asked her?!" exclaimed Gilbert, sitting upright, and referring to the incident without directly referring to _it_…a strange talent which many men seem to possess.

"Yes."

"And she refused to marry you?" said Gilbert, abandoning his talent.

"Yes!" cried Charlie, flying up from behind his cushion again. "I just can't believe it! I mean, doesn't Anne Sloane sound well?"

Gilbert could not trust himself to answer _that_.

"And, you know how Avonlea is. All of us, interconnected. So many Sloanes…I would have thought Anne would like to be a part of that…to feel even more a part of Avonlea than she does already."

"Besides the fact that you think very highly of her," suggested Gilbert, in a peculiar voice.

"Of course. And Anne was…_is_…just…utterly insensible of the honor. So," continued Charlie, "I tried to impress that honor on her—to show her what I was trying to do! And do you know what she did! She flared up at me! It put me in mind of the time in school that she smashed her slate all over your head." Charlie glared. "Gilbert, are you ill?"

"No," choked Gilbert, subduing his sudden coughing fit. "I'm all right."

Charlie was too Sloaneish and too upset to inquire further. "It's no wonder that I'm angry.

"But…what have I got that Anne would admire? She's so beautiful, and graceful, and kind and caring and gentle…"

"Yes…" agreed Gilbert dreamily, celestial music in his head wafting about as he envisioned Anne, not even wondering why on earth he was talking about such a delicate matter—or person—with Charlie Sloane. "She is…"

"…and as far as you're concerned, she's fair game."

The celestial music screeched to a halt.

"Wait, what?" asked Gilbert.

Charlie looked, with a strange combination of pity and bitterness, upon his handsome best friend. "Don't be stupid, Gil. Your names are intertwined on the tongues of everyone at Redmond. I know you love Anne. And do you know what else? I know she feels the same way about you. I've seen the way she looks at you."

"…she does?" asked Gilbert dazedly. "I mean I know she looks _at _me, but…"

"Yes. She does," said Charlie impatiently. "I'm no fool, Gil. I know I'll get over having loved Anne. Eventually. So I have no bitterness in telling you to…er…" His brief spurt of heroism ended, the Sloaneishness taking over once more, as Charlie cast about for the Latin phrase. "Seize the…you know. Carp."

"Right. Carp."

Charlie clapped Gilbert on the shoulder. "Good man. Thank you for hearing me out. I am going to go find Geoff now."

"Carp."

In a very few minutes his letter in response to Roger was complete. It was also very, very brief.

_Roger:_

_Received your letter. Good luck in Italy. I'll take care of Christine, don't worry. _

_I'm sorry for the brevity of my reply…it's just I'm very preoccupied with something right now…_

_Gilbert_

_Postscript: She's _not _"my Anne", so don't carry on so._

Gilbert considered the postscript.

_Carpe diem,_ was what Charlie had meant. _Seize the day._

He scratched out "so don't carry on so", and added one word.

…_yet._


	8. Anne Finds the House of Dreams

**Busy weekend, so, here comes Chapter Eight some days early!!**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Eight: Anne Finds the House of Dreams**_

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams;_

_I have spread my dreams under your feet;_

_Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams._

–Yeats, _The Cloths of Heaven_

One day a few weeks before they were to return home for Christmas, Gilbert was strolling along Spofford Avenue.

He was therefore very surprised when the door of Patty's Place was flung open and _Anne _came hurtling out, wearing, not the sort of clothes one might wear while calling on the owner of a house one dearly wanted for one's own, but an apron and a simple dress, such as one might wear if one owned the place and was house-cleaning. "Gilbert!"

"Anne!" returned Gilbert, since there seemed nothing more to be said.

Anne flung her arms around Gilbert and hugged him. "Isn't it lovely? Miss Maria and Miss Patty Spofford have gone on a tour of Europe, and they're letting the house to us! To Priscilla! and Phil! and Stella!—" who had recently arrived to attend at Redmond… "and to _me_! Oh! this makes up for _so many_ of my past unfulfilled dreams!" she babbled excitedly. "Oh, I'm wild with joy!" In fact most of the single braid down Anne's back had come undone in her flurry.

"Anne!" exclaimed Gilbert again, but this time with a purpose. "That's tremendous!

"You certainly have gone wild," he added, after a moment's reflection. "You have still got your arms around my neck."

"Oh!" Anne blushed and turned away, not seeing the smug grin on Gilbert's face. "Well, in any case, I want to show you around the house…the girls won't mind, as they are all out."

Patty's Place was as charming inside as it was on the exterior.

"This is Gog," said Anne solemnly, indicating one of two green china dogs who stood on either side of the fireplace, the right-hand one, "and this is Magog. Aren't they enchanting? They are the twin deities which guard Patty's Place, I'm sure."

Of course it was not proper for Gilbert to be shown the upper story, but Anne was very excited about her own room, and Gilbert could not help but catch glimpses through open doors on the way there. Each girl had chosen a room in the remarkably spacious—for a small house—residence, that seemed almost to have been predestined for them: Priscilla and Stella shared a large, sage-and-cream-colored room; Philippa's room, we are pleased to admit, was entirely pink and pearly, and very small; and Anne's room, at the front of the house, was papered blue and white, with a window seat right above the front door from whence she had seen Gilbert coming.

"Stella's maiden aunt is going to come and help us keep house," elaborated Anne. "Apparently she is going to bring cats with her. I have always loved cats. Do you know," added Anne thoughtfully, "when I was at the Hammonds' I named a cat Gilbert."

"Oh!" said Gilbert the human, who detested cats and their condescending ways. "Why?"

"There were two cats…I thought, at the time," replied Anne, dreamily, "that a cat's purr was the most musical thing in the world. And at the time the only musically inclined famous people I had ever heard of were the opera composers, Gilbert and Sullivan."

"Oh!" said Gilbert again…he hated _The Pirates of Penzance_ even more so than cats.

"So there you go," Anne finished triumphantly.

"Did you hear about what happened to Moody three nights ago?" asked Gilbert, by way of changing the subject and receiving news at the same time. Moody had just come to Redmond to be a minister…as per his mother's wishes, not his.

"Why, no. What happened?"

"Some drunk Sophomores thought they'd make fun of the minister-in-training and shaved off half his hair."

"Oh, no!" cried Anne, dismayed, as they went downstairs again. "Poor Moody!"

"Poor indeed," said Gilbert grimly. "The boys that did it have been expelled—this wasn't a first offense, I think—but all Moody really cares about is what a certain Some One will think when he goes home for Christmas."

"A Some One!" Anne giggled in anticipation. "He has a sweetheart now?"

"Well, sort of…I'm pretty sure she doesn't know about how he feels," smirked Gilbert. "But I feel sorry for him as much for liking her as for having someone to consider the good opinions of at all."

"Who is it, Gil?!" cried Anne, capering in anticipation. "Oh, do tell! Is it an Avonlean girl?"

"Yes. Brace yourself, Anne…it is…Josie Pye!"

Anne sat down hard on the sofa—Gilbert thought she was going to faint, and sat down beside her—but—Anne burst out laughing.

And yet there was something strange about her laughter.

Just at this moment, as Gilbert sat on the couch pondering the vagaries of red-haired girls, something brushed against his leg.

Gilbert leapt about three feet into the air.

Anne began laughing even harder. "Oh, Gil, you ninny! It's only Rusty!" she exclaimed—albeit somewhat breathlessly. Gilbert had landed on her.

Gilbert, his cheeks afire as he maneuvered off of Anne's lap, peered dubiously over the edge of the couch at a cat whose black fur did indeed have an oxidized look to it.

"…Rusty." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, he's _my_ cat," said Anne, happily oblivious to Gilbert's discomfort. "He followed me home from Redmond one day, and Phil decided to kill him by way of chloroform, but he didn't die because there was a knot-hole in the box that we stuck him under with the chloroform-bottle, and I decided that my developing affection for poor Rusty was so strong that I shouldn't have him killed again. I'm the only one he likes…when Phil tried to pet him the other day he hissed and spat and clawed and did all kinds of frightening things…I'm sure that his hissing is cat-language for some _horrible_ swear-words! After all, maybe Rusty knows she tried to choloroform him...but look at him now!"

Gilbert looked at Rusty now…with undisguised distaste, as the cat was currently rubbing his head happily against Gilbert's trouser leg.

"He likes you!"

"Of course he would," muttered Gilbert darkly.


	9. A Game of Hearts

_**Chapter Nine: A Game of Hearts**_

_The heart has its reasons which reason does not know._

-Pascal, _Pensées IV_

"Amethysts," said Anne decidedly, "are the most beautiful jewels in the world, and my favorites. Just think of their dusky violet splendor! Violets are, as Paul Irving used to say, scraps of sky that were left over when the angels cut out holes for the stars, and…" Anne titled her head back in an expression of rapture… "amethysts must be the souls of violets after the flowers themselves wither away. I remember when I was smaller, I thought that _diamonds_ must be purple…'diamond' is such a very purply word, don't you think?...and I nearly cried when I finally saw a real diamond, so cold and so glaring, in a lady's ring."

"Oh." Gilbert tried not to show his disappointment. Amethysts were rather expensive. "Well, then, what is your _second favorite_ jewel?"

Anne considered, her lips pursed and her head titled endearingly to one side. "I suppose pearls are. I used to have a pearl bead ring which I made, and Matthew gave me those beautiful pearls on a string, but the string broke one day when I was crossing the brook and the pearls fell into the water." Anne sighed. "And also, I like them because they come from the sea, and I love the sea. Why do you ask?"

"Oh—no reason," said Gilbert hastily. What was he supposed to reply? _"Because I'm trying to figure out what sort of ring you would like, when I've proposed to you"?_ Hardly. "Speaking of jewels, though," he went on hastily, "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to come up to Green Gables last month. So, here is your Christmas present." His tone was confident, but Gilbert held his breath in anticipation as Anne tore open the wrapping paper, opened the cardboard box, and…

"…Oh!" said Anne. "How beautiful!"

"I know you can't wear pink," said Gilbert, "but I thought the pendant was so small…"

"It's perfect. And you knew pink was my favorite color." Anne turned it over and over, admiring it from every angle. "It looks so…familiar…somehow."

Gilbert laughed. "You're probably thinking of the pink candy heart I offered you when we were in Avonlea School."

"The one I crushed? Probably," Anne agreed, smiling, but she did not sound entirely convinced. "I'd wear it right now, but I'm afraid it would clash with my dress."

"I like your dress," complimented Gilbert, looking with admiration upon the tall, slim figure whose presence beside him was causing Anne's admirers, many of whom were present tonight at the Redmond social, to writhe with envy. "The green brings out the brassy tints of your hair. And how pale your skin is."

Anne blushed and opened her mouth to say something, but at this moment they were hailed by Philippa, Stella, Moody, and Charlie…the last of which, as soon as he saw Anne, turned green and hared off in the opposite direction, where Priscilla was chatting with a tall man who Gilbert recognized vaguely from various social gatherings.

"Isn't this a charming evening?" demanded Philippa gaily, her cheeks flushed by excitement and the glow of her yellow silk. "It's absolutely mild outside, despite the fact we're in the middle of January, and—as I was just saying to Charlie—Charlie?—where has that dratted boy gone to?—oh, never mind—and yet it's as though some of the chill has come inside, to vanish the heat that usually builds up in a ball like this."

The other four made noises of assent.

A waltz began. Moody politely asked Anne for a dance, and off they went, leaving Gilbert to the tender mercies of the two girls. Philippa was telling Priscilla all about her recent trip to Paris.

"—tore his mask off, and suddenly the crystal chandelier came crashing down into the orchestra pit! Almost ended up burning the entire opera house down!" exclaimed Philippa, gesticulating wildly about with her fan, with an exuberance that caused the drowsy chaperones lining the walls to bolt awake, and glare blearily at the flighty young woman. Nothing daunted, Philippa said suddenly, "Stella! isn't that Royal Gardner over there?"

Stella peered over at the Junior talking to Charlie and Priscilla, while fanning her cheeks, as pink as her pale, gauzy dress. "Why, I think it is!"

"Who is Royal Gardner?" asked Gilbert, after some moments, when neither girl showed signs of noticing Gilbert again anytime soon.

"Royal Gardner," sighed Stella, "is in Phil's circle of 'sassiety', and is a decided Bluenose. Here in Kingsport, his family is very renowned, very rich…and he is very handsome."

_Bleargh_, thought Gilbert. Handsomeness and confidence, as Gilbert himself knew, was all very well, but to any girl worth falling in love with it was inner worth that really mattered. Not, he thought, with an odd mix of pride and prejudice, that either he or this Gardner fellow were wanting for good looks or garrulous personality.

But next to this Royal Gardner…and he did not really want to admit it…Gilbert felt about as handsome and confident as a sheep. Or a turnip.

Ah well. The category of "any girl worth falling in love with", quite obviously, included Priscilla, Stella…Philippa, he _supposed_…and Anne, the last of whom, at the very least, was too sensible to fall prey to a man whose charms and brash self-assurance concealed melting centers of insecurity.

Or something along those lines. Never dreaming that his last analysis—that of Anne's sensibility where importunate bucks were concerned—had just rendered him a study in dramatic irnoy, Gilbert dismissed the subject as insignificant and amused himself by watching as Anne came back from her dance with a cup of punch and a florid face.

As Gilbert obligingly—or as commanded—fanned her, Anne sipped punch with her friends and expostulated upon college gossip with Moody, who eventually joined Charlie on the other side of the room. Every now and then she tossed a remark over her shoulder to Gilbert, since he was now the only man present in their company.

At length Gilbert escaped and exchanged places with Priscilla in their respective groups, hoping to meet this Royal Gardner for himself, to satisfy his curiosity; for like Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet in _Pride and Prejudice_, Gilbert enjoyed every now and then to be "a connoisseur of human folly," but to his disappointment that gentleman was no longer present.


	10. Mayflowers and Misery

**I have an account on FictionPress as well now and you can find the username on my LiveJournal! I have already posted a story. **

**Sorry about this chapter. Gilbert and I both have learned it never pays to confess...**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Ten: Mayflowers and Misery**_

_There must be an angel with a smile on her face_

_When she thought up that I should be with you…_

_But it's time to face the truth. _

_I will never be with you._

-_You're Beautiful_, James Blunt

One day in late April Gilbert went strolling through the park and down to Patty's Place with one purpose in mind, and one only.

His hands were full of Mayflowers, Anne's favorite flower, as they had been, once, a little less than ten years before; but this time his heart was full of an expectant hope, and not an expectant fear.

In the flower language Mayflowers mean "Thee only do I love". Gilbert did not know this, but if he had, he would have deemed it a fitting message.

He found Anne perched on a large boulder in the "real" apple orchard behind Patty's Place, and held out his flowers to her. "Don't these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?"

"Oh, I'm in Mr. Silas Sloane's barrens this very minute!" And unlike before, Anne smiled and hugged the bouquet to her chest, burying her pretty nose in them.

"I suppose _you_ will be there in reality in a few days," said Gilbert ruefully, thinking of his summer's project.

"No—not for a fortnight," returned Anne, also sadly. "I'm going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke before I go home. You'll be in Avonlea before I will!"

"No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. My uncle in Glen St. Mary is a doctor, and I am going to live there for the summer, with him, and study what he does."

Anne laughed bitterly. "We're both growing up, Gil. I don't want any of this to change…I wish I could just hold on to these days forever. I have a feeling things will never be the same again…will they?"

"Well, I won't change. That's the least I can promise you," Gilbert grinned, putting a reassuring hand on Anne's shoulder, and admiring her delicate features.

She suddenly jumped up from her perch, smiling also, but a little too feverishly.

But Gilbert did not really notice, or care; he was trying to compose himself for the words which were to change both of their lives.

"…as if I had discovered a gold mine," Anne was saying.

Gilbert recalled himself. What had Anne said? "You are always discovering gold mines…" he mumbled, without knowing what he was saying.

"Let us go and see if we can find some more! I'll call Phil, and—"

"Never mind Philippa and the gold mines, Anne," cried Gilbert, taking Anne's hands in his. "There's something I want to ask you—"

Anne tried to pull away. "Oh, don't say it! Please. Don't, Gil."

Gilbert was surprised—a part of him suggested that Anne was merely afraid that the promise of happiness which he was about to relay was not for her. After all, he had always been extremely chummy with Philippa…With a desperation he was as yet unaware of, Gilbert seized upon this idea. "I must! Things can't go on like this any longer.

"Anne, I love you." It felt such a relief to finally tell her of his secret, intense regard—after—was it nine years? "I…I can't tell you how much. Will you promise me that some day you'll be my wife?" his voice trembled with emotion.

"I—I can't," choked Anne. "Oh, Gil, you've spoiled everything. I never wanted for you to care for me so! I…kept away so you wouldn't…"

"Don't you care for me at all?" asked Gilbert, blankly.

Anne said and did nothing; only looked sorrowfully up at him.

_Ohhhhhhhhh,_ he had been so sure…so…_foolish_…

"Now, maybe you don't think I'm good enough for you now," asserted Gilbert, "but I will be, someday."

Anne shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "No, Gil. You're a great deal _too _good for me. But you want someone who'll adore you, someone who'll be happy just to hang on your arm and build a home for you." A pause, and then, "I wouldn't."

Of course she wouldn't! Gilbert wouldn't "build a home" for anyone, either, if he'd been in Anne's place—but that was a moot point! "Anne—that's not what I'm looking for at all—"

"We'd end up like two old crows: fighting! All the time!" Anne turned away, beginning to cry.

_We're fighting even now_. She didn't have to add that statement to her argument: it echoed around Gilbert's suddenly vacant thoughts, banging against his head as though Anne had swung a heavy wooden club at him.

"I know I'd be unhappy…and I'd wish we'd never done it."

It would have been impossible to say exactly what Gilbert's feelings were at this moment.

Anne…didn't love him.

His senses reeled under this fact…he felt as though he were falling from a very great height…and towards certain death, crushed against sharp rocks by the force of his fall…

Vaguely, Gilbert cast about for something to say. "Everyone expects it, dear," he implored, feeling close to tears himself. "Marilla and Mrs. Lynde…the girls…Charlie and Moody and Geoff…even Josie Pye. You must feel that."

Anne shuddered, as though with sobs. "Well, then we'd be doing it for all the wrong reasons, Gil! You just…think…that you love me."

Anne's last sentence sluiced through Gilbert's numb mind like cold rain upon an exotic island.

"Anne!" It was sheer nonsense! Gilbert laid both of his hands on Anne's shoulders, turning her to face him—turning her so that he could look her _straight in the eyes_ as they spoke. "I've loved you for as long as I can remember!"

It was no simple desire, no mere _want_, that bound him to her. Any man could _want_…Gilbert "wanted" Anne like he "wanted" air to breathe. "I _need_ you. I can't go away knowing that if I'd just—"

"I promise I'll always be here if you need me. Good friends are always together in spirit!" prevaricated Anne, smiling bravely at Gilbert through her tears…and Gilbert was struck with an odd sensation of anger! How dare _Anne_ cry, when it was Gilbert who was having his heart, his soul, his _world_, ripped to pieces!

"Let's not change, Gil—let's just go on being good friends!" she pleaded, hugging Gilbert suddenly; but it was not the sort of hug that he had come to Patty's Place today to receive, and he did not return it.

The Mayflowers lay forgotten on the ground; Anne seemed to have accidentally trodden on them as she paced about in distress.

_How appropriate._

Anne released Gilbert and looked up into his eyes, grey into hazel. "But you must never speak of this to me again."

"Friends, huh?" Gilbert scoffed sarcastically. He knew, he saw in her eyes as she searched his, that his malicious tones hurt her even more deeply, but he did not care; Gilbert even felt a fleeting, wicked glee, that he was making Anne see how _he_ must feel. "I thought we were 'kindred spirits'."

Three more tears, one after the other, slid noiselessly down Anne's pale, bloomless cheeks, melting Gilbert's angry, icy feelings immediately.

"It is your love, Anne, not your friendship alone, that I want—and you tell me I can never have that.

"Please…" Gilbert's throat was aching with the lump that he fought to swallow; his voice was thick with unshed tears…hoarse, and barely above a whisper. "Say yes…"

"I can't," sobbed Anne, "Gil, listen to me—I'm so desperately sorry—"

But Gilbert did not wait to hear more. He turned on his heel and fled the apple orchard, to prevent himself from flaring up at Anne…and so that she should not see _him_ cry.


	11. The Depths of Despair

_**Chapter Eleven: The Depths of Despair**_

"_O Jo, can't you?"_

"_Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"_

_That was all…a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself up, said "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo _did _mind…she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come to her again._

-Louisa May Alcott, _Good Wives_

Charlie was not in.

Gilbert threw the door open—staggered forward, tossing his coat onto a chair—fell onto his bed with a muffled _whump_.

He declined even to swat ineffectually at the dust motes, expelled so forcibly from his mattress, that danced in the fading sunlight.

Lying on his back, Gilbert stared unseeingly at the discolored ceiling, which seemed to stretch far above him, as far away as the skies. It seemed to Gilbert that the ceiling _was_ the sky—the sky he would never reach for, never soar towards, again. Because the depths of despair were a deep dark hole, and he lay stunned upon his back at the bottom of that hole.

_Oh, Anne…_

Mere hours ago he'd had wings as he gained upon the sun…upon the brilliant golden happiness that seemed easily within his grasp. But his wings, like those of the mythical character Icarus, had melted and sent Gilbert reeling back towards the earth.

Gilbert groaned aloud and rolled over on his side, his face half-buried in the pillow…into which a briny drop or two presently fell.

_Anne, Anne, Anne…_

He had been _so sure_ of himself. So confident. So hopeful. So eager to believe that after nine years, Anne might love him—Gilbert bit back another groan.

He knew about Anne and Diana's "mansions in the sky", their "homes o' dreams", their "castles in Spain". He knew, too, that each of these perfectly suited palaces—or humble though ivy-encrusted cottages, depending on Anne's mood—was sacred to a perfectly suited Romantic Ideal. Anne—or Diana, for that matter—would never tell Gilbert what, precisely, were the qualities their Romantic Ideal possessed, but he was beginning to realize that a frowsy-headed country boy like Gilbert had no right to wear that crown—to ascend that throne—to aspire to that position! He was, after all, only Gilbert Blythe…

Something about the phrase "only Gilbert" niggled at his memory…Gilbert frowned, picking stray threads off of the coverlet.

Ah, yes.

…It was a phrase Gilbert had used to describe himself once, when Anne had spontaneously revealed her life's story to him. Not even Marilla had heard all of it.

"_Why me? I'm only Gilbert."_

"_Not only…"_

Apparently her evaluation of Gilbert's worth had since changed.

But how could he have doubted himself? Anne had, since the end of their enmity—well, mostly the end!—been so obliging and interested.

_Because you are chums. Not soul mates._

"Oh, shut up," Gilbert said aloud, as the teardrops increased.

There was the time at Queen's when Anne had fled the library, convinced he cared about Emily Clay…

The day he had ridden out to tell Anne he had given up the Avonlea school for her, and had accidentally…for lack of a better word…caressed her cheek. (That _had_ been a smile she had bestowed upon him, hadn't it? and not a pained grimace?)

The spring that Anne had deemed Gilbert a suitably kindred spirit to see Hester Gray's garden, "the most romantic place in the world"…

The day the Avonlea town hall had been painted bright blue, and Anne had not shrugged away the comforting arms Gilbert put round her…

The boating excursion when Anne had confessed the sad tale of Miss Lavendar, and then valued his companionship highly enough to want to introduce them, to bring Gilbert to Echo Lodge…

And, at Miss Lavendar's wedding, when Gilbert had hinted that people who had grown up side by side would be the possessors of happy memories at their wedding, Anne hadn't exactly misinterpreted the allusion, had she?

Hadn't she?

And now, at Redmond, Anne was always asking him to visit, always looking for him in a crowd between classes, always seeking him out at lunch, always gravitating towards him at a social gathering.

It wasn't enough. None of it was enough. Anne herself, if she had been a bystander and not a starring player in this disaster, would have calmly poked holes of logic in each and every one of Gilbert's wildly facetious examples. His treasured hoard of memories and tokens was as trumpery and tarnished as a child's ring, fished out of the bottom of a box of saltwater taffy.

Gilbert chose not to remember his botched request, that night the first time he'd seen Anne since he gave his opinion of that story she'd written. _Averil's Atonement._ To think that Anne hadn't written, to his knowledge, since! It was probably all his fault!

The tears began to come thickly and rapidly.

Gilbert, despite the fact that his face was salty and wet, desperately wished Charlie would come home from wherever he might be—for right now, Gilbert was, and felt, desperately alone. Being alone meant thinking. And thinking, in a very few minutes, had become a very, very dangerous thing to do.

He didn't want to have to think about what had just transpired at Patty's Place.

He didn't want to remember the Mayflowers—a childish, foolish hope—he never wanted to see another Mayflower again.

He didn't want to recall, all too late, Anne's evasive comments. Oh, _why_ hadn't he taken the hint, instead of charging stubbornly on?

He didn't want to remember the look, the woeful expression, with which she had refused his plaint.

He didn't want to remember the anguished cry—"Gil, I'm so sorry"—before he'd fled from her very presence.

_Sorry._ Sorry? As if he could marry an apology, raise a family with it, have its comforting support in hard times. What good did sorry do—what did it really _mean_?

Why didn't Anne _marry him_ if she was so _sorry_ to lose him, through her hurt of him? It was only _logical_. When someone you cared about was hurt or anguished, you did all that was in your power to keep them safe, keep them _happy._

_But maybe it's not _in _her power to love you._

"No!" The pillow, which had just been half-drowned to begin with, was quite alarmed to discover itself whizzing across the room. It ricocheted off the door and fell to the carpet.

Outside, it had begun to rain.

"Why not? Anne, why not?"

Being not Anne—not to mention being, in fact, an inanimate object—the pillow, lying on the floor, forbore to answer.

Gilbert propelled himself out of bed and strode over to his desk by the window. Greyness, reminiscent of the cloudy heavens, shadowed the paper kept in constant readiness on the wooden surface, marred and streaked with the darker smudges and streaks of droplets of water, most of which were merely shadows from the other side of the window, and not from the moisture that Gilbert roughly wiped away with his shirtsleeve.

Gilbert pulled out a bottle of ink and his fountain pen.

But what to write?

The first attempt produced a charmingly abstract pattern of dots, caused by the nib hovering wordlessly as Gilbert tried to come up with something to scribe. He crumpled up the ruined sheet and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket, and tried again.

_Dearest Anne,—_

The adjective might frighten her away.

_Anne, I don't—_

"—have words to express the anguished depths of what you've done to me," muttered Gilbert in frustration as he discarded a third sheet of paper.

_Dear Anne,_

_Your refusal of my—_

_Anne, _

_when I left so abruptly this evening, —_

_Anne,_

_My heart—_

_Anne, _

_Your heart—_

_Anne, _

_I'll never—_

_Anne, _

_Whenever I see you from now on, I will be—_

_Anne,_

_What I asked of you was—_

_Anne, darling—_

It is a truth universally acknowledged…at least by those who have been unlucky enough to come upon it…that the volume of the contents of one's wastepaper basket, usually in tear-stained, botched attempts to write lovelorn letters, increases exponentially as does the volume of one's sobs.

Gilbert gave up, from fatigue and because the sun had set. The insistent patter of the rain pounded mercilessly upon his aching head; Gilbert massaged his temples in a vain attempt to dispel the pain.

He felt he had run a thousand miles. He felt he was going to die, with this pain in his chest and in his head.

"_Do you know something he told me one day about heartbreak...the heartbreak I faced daily?"_

"_No." Gilbert had caught at the excitement that whispered an undercurrent below Anne's words. "Tell me."_

"_Remember he'd had his share of heartbreak, too. He said, '_It will get better._ Probably not today. Maybe not tomorrow or next week. Or even next month. Look how long it took me to crawl out of the hole I was in. _But I'm out_. I thought I never would be, but it happened.' I'd just introduced him to Miss Henderson."_

They had been speaking of Anne's Egg Man, Mr. Johnson. The evening was three years ago, but Gilbert, sinking back into the mattress, remembered it so well.

How ironic it was that Anne should be his only, vague source of hope! he marveled, just before waves of emotion washed over him, pulling him under, drowning him. He hoped he was dying, but as though he really was underwater, he was half-aware.

Only half, and it was not enough. Only half, and it was too much.


	12. Intense Scrutiny

_**Chapter Twelve: Intense Scrutiny**_

_Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me._

-Stephenie Meyer, _New Moon_

"Phil?" A clear, sweet voice broke into her reverie, and she started, spilling half her glass of champagne down her front.

"Drat," muttered Philippa, bending to scrub at the stain, with no other effect than that some of the liquid transferred itself to the glove she was using to mop up the liquid. However, she worked slowly, aware that Anne's eyes bored into her brown pompadour.

Finally Philippa had to give up and face her friend. "Yes, Queen Anne?"

Grey eyes locked brown, and held firmly. The "queen" was not amused. "You know exactly what I want to say."

"I do. But you won't say it, because you know I'm almost as loyal a friend to him as I am to you." Philippa tossed her head impatiently. "You can't tell me to stop staring. Anne, look at him for yourself."

To Phil's surprise, Anne did dare a quick glance—then turned her head away and down. Had she really seen Gilbert at all? Or had she, and was afraid of what she saw?

Before Phil could demand the answer to _that_ question, Anne rose stiffly. If her pretty nose had been any further into the air, reflected Phil with grim amusement, Anne might have broken her neck. "I think," Anne said darkly, "I should like to go home now."

"I'll escort you back," eagerly offered Carlisle Cullen. Though Carlisle, who like Gilbert was a young medical student, was considered attractive and charming by every single girl at Redmond, tonight his departure was the least of Phil's chagrin with Anne.

Alone now, Philippa peered over the edges of her fan at her friend again. Goodness gracious, how was it even _possible_ that he could look worse than before? Phil frowned. Perhaps it was her imagination playing tricks on her. True, Gilbert grew thinner and paler as the days passed, but one couldn't expect him to lose several more pounds in a matter of minutes. Or could one?

At least, she hoped Charlie was exaggerating. She _might_ have gotten the chance to know for herself, had she been able to spend _more_ than two days in Gilbert's company—out of the almost-a-_month_ that had passed since he proposed to Anne.

Well. Philippa made a face. Maybe two days had been enough—for her, anyways. It had hurt to pace up and down the hallway outside the bedroom, with Charlie for company, and peer into the room hopefully only to see Gilbert sitting there, staring at the wall. He hadn't eaten or drank, or spoken, while Philippa "visited", and Charlie said he yelled in his sleep, yelled himself awake and then sat, very quietly, with tears streaming over the shadows deepening under his eyes, and onto his cheeks.

And it had hurt even more, to know that whatever pain she felt just _staring at_ Gilbert was magnified a thousand times or more for _him_.

Phil had never seen anything this horrifying before…it _was_ horrifying. What love could _do_ to a person! And, yes, she was quite, quite sure it was love—True Love, in capital letters. It was too pure for obsession, too clear-cut for infatuation.

And who could not fall in love with Anne? She was, at least as far as Phil—and obviously Gilbert—was concerned, absolutely perfect: pretty, smart, clever, funny, good…and something else, something that Philippa didn't have a name for but which was defined by Anne's faerie countenance, her wispy imaginings, her graceful demeanor.

But more to the point, who could not fall in love with Gilbert? Granted, in both cases, these days falling in love was the given phrase for airy sighs and dinner outings, but Gilbert and Anne weren't like that. Who could not fall in love with Gilbert? Philippa had herself once admired him—until she found that he fancied Anne, and discreetly waited for it to become an established fact. Like Anne, Gilbert was out of the ordinary—surely he was more sensible than either Anne or Phil, but he could be and was as wistful as Anne when the situation required. Clearly, Gilbert and Anne were Meant To Be. Couldn't Anne see the way Gilbert smiled at her? Spoke to her? Looked at her?

If Alec or Alonzo had ever looked at _Phil_ like that…

…she probably wouldn't have noticed, Philippa realized with a twinge of guilt. Silly spineless boys or not, they were something she'd taken for granted at home: Dolls, to be taken out of their tissue-lined boxes and played with, at her convenience.

And now…Philippa's full lips twisted in a grimace as she watched Gilbert, from whom Redmond's female population, aware that he and Anne were no longer on good terms, was rarely separated. He flirted—or tried, rather, but they ate it up.

It might have been more convincing if Philippa didn't know him—didn't know that this was Gilbert's way of floundering around in his Slough of Despond, without Help coming to the rescue. This was Gilbert trying to cope. He couldn't. And it hurt to see him try.

"It hurts to see him try," mused Charlie, approaching. It was an uncanny echo of Philippa's thoughts. "Doesn't it?"

"Mmm," said Philippa. "Half of them are still swooning over him, and half are convinced he's really a rake."

Charlie looked scandalized. "But you don't think so, do you? Even if he is flirting with half the school," he added, obviously embarrassed for Gilbert.

Philippa hastened to disabuse Charlie of that notion. "Oh, no! He's not _really_ a rake, only a dear, make-believe rake. Gilbert Blythe is too genuinely _good_ to be _a real rake_—but still, Charlie, it bothers me, and Anne too."


	13. In Which Prince Charming Is Royal

_**Chapter Thirteen: In Which Prince Charming Is Royal**_

_The world revives. Colors renew. _

_But I know blue—only blue…lonely blue…within me blue…without you…_

_Life goes on—but I'm gone! _

'_Cause I die, without you…_

-_Without You_, RENT

The Redmond students were given a four-day weekend, during which Gilbert returned home briefly.

The first morning of the holiday dawned cold and gray. But that didn't stop Gilbert from going down to the seashore.

Sitting at the edge of the waves, feet bare, in his old cap, Gilbert listlessly drubbed a stick of driftwood in the soft, soaked sand.

He was sick of living. Living _his_ life, anyways.

ANNE, he wrote in big, clumsy letters with his stick, just before the waves rushed in.

ANNE BLYTHE. This time the waves seemed to hesitate—in sympathy?—before they smoothed the wet sand over again, dragging Gilbert's foolish fancy out to sea with them.

It _was_ sort of allegorical—his dreams floating away on the salty water, sometimes azure, sometimes gray—today, gray—of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Gilbert looked up almost unconsciously and was surprised to see two figures walking along the beach—two young women, whom he had known well for nine years. The figure in red, her dark hair a blot against her dress, stopped walking and looked at her companion, whose face had paled beneath her auburn tresses as she too imitated a statue.

Who knew how long Gilbert's dreams would drift about in the choppy, dismal waves before floating ashore at Anne's feet, like a message in a bottle—or be heaved onto the sand, shipwrecked and mangled…?

Wishing not to cause either woman any awkwardness, Gilbert flung himself up from the sand and soon was lost to their view among the sand dunes.

27 May found Gilbert at the train station.

"Kingsport!" cried the conductor.

Gilbert's hands were jammed into his pockets; his hat was pulled lower over his brow than usual, to help conceal the shadows that were threatening, after a month's sleepless nights, to remain forever etched beneath his eyes; he whistled under his breath, as an appearance of good cheer and a heart as yet pure and unbroken—an appearance as though he still spoke to his girl friends…who of course happened to be bosom friends of the woman he loved. As though that woman had promised to be his wife, and as though he had in fact spoken to her since he had proposed a month ago.

He leaned languidly against one of the square poles that supported the platform roof, still whistling as he eyed the disembarking travelers in search of black hair and blue eyes.

Soon, to Gilbert's relief, a pleasant-faced young woman, suiting Roger's description, in a modest blue overcoat and hat, came striding out of the train, clutching a carpet-bag in one hand and a leather suitcase in another.

Striding up to the woman, he asked politely, "Excuse me, but are you Christine Stuart?"

The young woman smiled frankly as she replied, "Sorry, I'm not," and walked past an appalled Gilbert.

"Where the deuce is she?" muttered Gilbert, who had after all been waiting over an hour under a sun which was quite convinced that June might as well have arrived.

There were not a very many people—at least, as far as Gilbert had any idea of—who had such coloring. Even Diana Barry had grey eyes—no, nothing like _her _eyes, but a grey dark enough to pass for black. Blue eyes with dark hair! and that girl who wasn't Christine Stuart had had the nerve to be the only such girl Gilbert saw leaving the tr—

Gilbert heard a throaty "Oh!" just as something small, and decidedly heavy, thumped onto his foot.

Looking down, past his throbbing toe, he could see that it was a brown reticule—although honestly, his toes were quite convinced it had been a brick. He stooped to pick it up—and failed to rise, gazing in shock, past the beige apple-print silk and brown velvet bustle and bodice, and a short jacket which matched the skirt, into the face of its owner.

"I'm terribly sorry," said the woman, in the same dark, velvety voice, as Gilbert stood dazedly. Her equally deep blue eyes seemed to penetrate his, and her hair glistened genuinely black, contrasting with her brown hat in glimmers of silver and blue. "The crush of a train station often invokes clumsiness in even the best of us, it would seem."

Gilbert straightened and raised his finger as though in recognition. "I—you—" he faltered, under the spell of her eyes. "Christine Stuart?"

"Yes," answered the woman in tones of great surprise, though her calm expression did not change. "And if you know my name, you must be Gilbert Blythe."

"Yes. Yes, I am." Flustered, Gilbert held out a hand to shake.

Christine Stuart smiled sweetly and placed her hand _over_ his, in such a way that Gilbert remembered he was supposed to kiss, and not shake, a _lady's_ hand.

Gilbert kissed Christine's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet the sister of one of my best friends."

"And I, the best friend of my brother," said Christine simply.

Again, Gilbert had forgotten himself, and snapped back to. "May I get your bags?"

"You may," came the demure reply, and Gilbert, having safely left Christine in the ladies' waiting room, walked off with her baggage ticket, feeling decidedly self-satisfied.

He had, after the first flush of having had a surprisingly heavy reticule dropped upon his toes, managed to convey the same air of suavity and cool detachment which he had cultivated, with all the finality of a wall of thorns surrounding the enchanted castle in the story, shielding his broken heart: "He's not _really_ a rake," Charlie reported Philippa having complained to Charlie, only a few weeks ago, "only a dear, make-believe rake. Gilbert Blythe is too genuinely _good_ to be _a real rake_—but still, Charlie, it bothers me, and Anne too."

Anne, who never spoke to Gilbert, and to whom Gilbert never uttered a word, anymore, except the occasional civility at awkward social gatherings.

With her pale skin, inky hair, and eyes the color of the ocean at night, Christine Stuart _was_ really very pretty.

Gilbert smiled inside all the way back to Christine, even under the weight of five hatboxes and a luggage trolley bearing a trunk and two more bags.

In the carriage Gilbert hired to convey Christine to her boarding-house—he'd walked to the train station, but it really wasn't the done thing to expect a lady to traverse the same distance!—Gilbert made light chatter.

"Roger tells me you have spent you first two, and most of your third, college years abroad."

"Oh! indeed. I have been in Vienna these four years."

A slight pause ensued.

Gilbert felt this to be unconscionable.

"Do you know many people at Redmond?"

"I know no one." Christine pursed her lips attractively as she thought. "Well, perhaps Royal Gardner."

"Oh," replied Gilbert politely. "I'm afraid we're not very well acquainted." Inspiration struck. "But if you are not still indisposed from traveling by tonight, would you like to come to a Redmond-hosted ball being given? I know many amiable people our age, and can happily introduce you to them. And perhaps you might do me the favor of introducing me to Royal Gardner."

"Thank you, I shall enjoy _your_ company, at least." Christine beamed admiringly up at Gilbert. "Besides, I should like to see a familiar face such as Royal Gardner again."

Curiosity got the better of him, and Gilbert asked, "And do you believe him to be a handsome sort of man?"

"To be sure, many say he is."

"Is he agreeable?" Gilbert pressed.

"He is in no way disagreeable…" Christine prevaricated.

Gilbert suppressed a sigh. He felt the sigh explode within him.

"And is he a man of information?" he asked wearily, wondering if he should just hold up two cards, bearing the words "yes" and "no", and ask Christine to point to the one which best answered the question "Is the man a dandified bore?"

With what little knowledge of Christine Stuart Gilbert already had, he was sure that she would find some way to point with ambiguity.

"When last I spoke to him, all of his statements seemed correct," commented Christine. Ambiguously.

Fortunately for Gilbert's sanity, Christine's boarding-house was reached at this moment and he did not have to see her again for seven hours.

In the evening, however, a carriage rumbled by the building once more; a tall figure swathed in blue velvet detached itself from the gloom and they set off for the ball.

Once there, as they removed their outer coats, Gilbert could see that Christine was elegantly dressed, in silk so dark purple, it was almost black, and shot with silver striping—a blatant contrast to the bright gay colors worn by actually every other girl in the room—and her hair was adorned with white roses. The colors made her white skin seem even paler, her dark hair shone blue and purple, and her blue eyes darkened enough to pass for violets themselves!

As they entered the room, heads turned and fans fluttered as men and women alike pondered this dusky newcomer.

Christine turned to Gilbert, her fingers delicately resting upon his elbow, and flashed him a brilliant smile—of triumph?—and for one fleeting, transient moment, Gilbert felt they were the Prince and Cinderella, bursting in upon the unsuspecting ballgoers.

That is, until half an hour later, as Gilbert and Christine whirled about the floor in a particularly exuberant waltz, when he caught a glimpse of a white vision: a girl in cream silk, the rosebuds embroidered upon which contrasted prettily with her auburn hair, a simple cream-colored ribbon trailing artistically through her curls.

Christine, who was furtively watching Gilbert watch the girl, narrowed her eyes. But after the waltz was over she all but dragged Gilbert over to Roy Gardner. "Mr. Gilbert Blythe," she began, in the current fashion, "permit me to present to you Mr. Royal Gardner. Gilbert comes from Prince Edward Island, like Stella Maynard, Roy."

"Good evening, Mr. Blythe."

"Good evening, Mr. Gardner."

The two men shook hands. Gardner's clasp was somewhat weak; obviously he had not been studying his Professor Hill. He had looked very tall from far off, but close up dwindled down to about an inch below Gilbert. It was a very crucial inch, as it boosted Gilbert's confidence.

"I am now told," said Royal Gardner solemnly, "that you are a native of Prince Edward Island—Abegweit, in the native language. 'A land cradled upon the waves.'"

Gilbert, though stifling a laugh at the man's melancholy airs, confirmed that this was so.

"Really, Roy!" protested Christine teasingly, as she swatted his arm with her fan, "it would seem that you studied all of this to impress someone! Not Gilbert, I hope!"

"Am I unworthy of being impressed?" asked Gilbert, with an incredulous laugh.

Roy Gardner smiled again. Gilbert did not like his smile; it was too forbearing, too benevolent, as though Gilbert and Christine were squabbling toddlers, and Gardner were their mother. Or father. Gilbert did not wonder for very long why it was mother instead of father which had occurred to him. "On the contrary, my estimable new friend. Though I feel that any friend is worthy of my amusing them, I have learned these things from the lady I escorted here tonight, a Miss Anne Shirley." He grinned past Gilbert's shoulder. "Oh, and look. There she is now."

Christine mysteriously glowered; and Gilbert turned to see Anne with a glass of lemonade in each hand, and a look of impending doom as she gazed upon her escort's companion.

"Miss Anne," Gardner hailed her, taking the lemonades and giving them to Christine and Gilbert—much to her puzzlement, "I have just had the pleasure of making Gilbert Blythe's acquaintance. He is from your Island as well. Perhaps you know each other?"

As Gilbert cordially brushed his lips against Anne's gloved fingers, he looked her straight in the eye, daring her to deny it. Anne blushed, but nevertheless managed, with commendable sangfroid, to say, "We are a little bit acquainted."

"That is indeed splendid news," Roy Gardner reassured her. Turning back to Gilbert, he asked, "And is Miss Shirley not the essence of faerie pulchritude?"

"Royal, please," insisted Anne, pleading with Gilbert with her eyes.

Gilbert met her gaze. "She truly is."

Anne blanched.

"I've just seen a friend," she exclaimed hastily. "I'll be right back, Roy. Enjoy your lemonade, _Mr. Blythe_."

And she was gone, leaving Gilbert with insipid company and the sour taste of lemons.


	14. Romantic Ideals

**Yes, poor Gil! You see Christine both enchants and exasperates him. Silly boy—doesn't he remember what that combination got him into **_**last time**_**?**

**I'm pleased to announce Christine has no physical appearances in this chapter. :)**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Fourteen: Romantic Ideals**_

_If you are not mine, then why am I crying on my bed?_

_If you are not mine, then why does your name resound in my head?_

_If you're not for me, then why does this distance maim my life?_

_If you're not for me, then why do I dream of you as my wife?_

-_If You're Not The One_, Daniel Bedingfield

The usual custom at the time was that the best friend of the bride and of the groom should proceed down the aisle together; however, between Diana and Gilbert it was mutually agreed that it would be best if this time, the tradition was ignored.

So when the violinist eked out a strain, the pianist played the opening bars, and the new minister's wife began to warble a song which passed as musical among most of Avonlea, Anne swept into the outdoor pavilion as bridesmaid, alone.

Gilbert, seated in the audience, caught his breath at the sight.

Dressed in white, Anne looked very bridal herself: her short puffed sleeves were adorned with colored lace flowers and seed pearls, as were her hairpiece and the small bouquet in her hands.

And as Anne, faerie-like, trod the crimson carpet which Gilbert had once hoped to be standing at the end of, watching her approach with bated breath—just now, only the shortness of breath was occurring—Anne looked to her left…her eyes met Gilbert's and locked.

And as time stood still—as Gilbert pondered what, exactly, he had seen, for the first time, in Anne's eyes—she looked away, and glided more quickly past him, so that Gilbert felt utterly thwarted, and missed most of the rest of the ceremony.

After paying his congratulations to Diana and Fred, a severe lack of options forced Gilbert to "loom" over a tea-table at the reception that held none other than Tillie Boulter and Jane Andrews. Jane was recently returned from California, and engaged to a millionaire.

Gilbert's eyes followed Anne—who she was talking to, what she was doing, was it the seventh time she had looked over her shoulder and seen him staring at her, or only the sixth?—when Tillie whapped him on the wrist with her fan. "Gilbert Blythe! You're not paying any attention to what I just said!"

"Sorry." Gilbert reluctantly tore his gaze from Anne and looked down at Tillie.

"I was just _saying_ to dear Jane that I saw Josie yesterday with…"

"Moody Spurgeon!" The voice, clear and high with jovial surprise, was unmistakable.

Gilbert couldn't help but look up again. Anne was talking to Moody animatedly, beaming, familiar enough to reach out and touch Moody's collar.

"And there they are now!" chirped Tillie distantly.

Josie showed up behind Moody and Anne, apparently having been invited by the former; the three conversed a little longer.

Whatever Anne had said left, as she strolled away again, Moody grinning dumbly and Josie fuming.

_Hey,_ thought Gilbert. _That used to be ME grinning like that._

Unnerved to see Gilbert watching her a seventeenth time in the last ten minutes, Anne cast a skittish look over her shoulder and walked briskly away from the merrymaking, in the direction of the stables!

Gilbert put down his teacup preoccupiedly and followed. "Excuse me, Tillie…Moody! Josie!" His greetings were perfunctory.

"Gilbert…?"

"Anne, wait! Where are you going?" he exclaimed, catching up to her.

"I'm leaving," said Anne shortly, as though it were not an obvious fact; blushed, and explained, "Marilla took Mrs. Lynde back earlier…she was ill…and I…don't feel very well either."

"I'll drive you back," Gilbert offered.

"What will Christine Stuart say when she finds out you've been driving other girls home?"

"I can explain. She won't mind!" added Gilbert, then frowned at his words. Why did it matter whether Christine minded or not? "How the deuce did Christine Stuart get into this conversation?" he demanded.

"Christine Stuart got into this conversation because _you_ are _courting_ Christine Stuart, Gilbert Blythe." Anne still would not look at him. She reached her buggy and began to hitch up the horse. "She looks like a fine and accomplished young lady, Gil."

_Oh._ Despite Christine's manifold attractions and charms—"It's not Christine I care about."

Anne stiffened and walked away, around the horse.

Visions of Gardner and Anne, even Moody and Anne, danced in Gilbert's head. "There's someone else, isn't there?" he cried.

"…no, Gil, honestly there isn't," prevaricated Anne.

But she'd hesitated before speaking.

"I don't care for _anyone_ in that way," Anne was saying, "and I like you more than _anybody_."

Gilbert scoffed loudly, going round the back of the buggy next to Anne—right before she mounted the buggy.

Gilbert seized her hand, causing Anne to gasp and turn halfway to look at him. "Anne, I'll wait," he pleaded. "If I even thought you cared—just a little—"

"I do care, Gil," admitted Anne quietly, allowing Gilbert to help her down from the buggy. In the one-mindedness which they so often shared—which Gilbert had assured himself was something to do with True Love in capital letters—they sat down simultaneously upon a bale of hay. "I always have. But I can never, never love you in the way you want me to!

"I'm happy as I am!" she protested, seeing Gilbert look away, but not that he was blinking vigorously as the outline of the buggy wavered and threatened to dissolve, in his vision. "I won't ever marry!"

"Oh, you'll marry all right," spat Gilbert, turning to face her indignantly. "Some fool like Gardner, who'll sit and read Tennyson by firelight, no doubt."

"Gil! Roy's just a chum!"

"…said Anne, after briefly hesitating," Gilbert angrily pointed out.

But even impatient Anne would not follow him down that road.

"And he'll build you your castles in the sky," continued Gilbert sadly as he released her hand. "I know you, Anne Shirley."

Anne's lip trembled. "Please, Gil, I don't mean to hurt you. But you'll see that I'm right, by and by, when you fall for someone else."

Oh, dear. Here it was, the rejection speech that, Gilbert was told, began "You are a wonderful person," and invariably ended with "Someday, you'll find someone who truly loves you."

Gilbert sighed. He didn't want to hear that speech. "You haven't hurt me, really," he said, as much of a lie to himself as to Anne—betrayed, by the tears, which he no longer cared about hiding, coursing down his face. "It's just that I've fooled myself into thinking that you loved me—that's all." And he looked her in the eye.

Anne was also on the verge of crying.

But never again would Gil succumb to that pitiful expression, that beautiful face. He stood.

"Gil, _please_—"

"I hope Royal Gardner breaks your heart," vowed Gilbert.

Anne began again. "You don't underst—"

"Then, _maybe_, you'll know what it is like to be jilted by _your_ Romantic Ideal. And maybe you'll come to your senses."

And Gilbert walked away, wondering bitterly how long it would take Anne to realize that, indeed, Anne had always been his ideal, though he was not _hers…_


	15. The Last Year

_**Chapter Fifteen: The Last Year**_

"_Here we are, all back again, nicely sunburned and rejoicing as a strong man to run a race," said Phil, sitting down on a suitcase with a sigh of pleasure._

-L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of the Island_

On the last day of a particularly golden summer, in a large white house in Glen St. Mary, Gilbert was writing letters to Charlie and Moody, detailing the summer he'd spent with his great-uncle the doctor.

_Although I won't be returning to Redmond for the actual medical course until the fall, I've learned so much already, first-hand, from Uncle David. He's a tip-top doctor…you should see how the Glen-folk revere him._

_The other day Uncle David was called to a childbirth, and he took me with him. At first I was tremendously confused and horrified—Biology, Chemistry and Anatomy are all very well, but they do absolutely nothing to prepare you really for medical __work__. There is such a difference between reading about something in a book, and seeing it with your own eyes. Fortunately, not being even a medical student yet I wasn't allowed to do much, only hand Uncle David towels and scissors and things. And the look of relief and pride on Mrs. Kilmeny's face as her baby was given to her…she regarded her doctor with almost as much joy as she did her child, and once again I felt that __this is what I'm here to do for the world__._

Into both letters he tucked a column from the Glen St. Mary _Daily Enterprise_, which he had written—an editorial upon the topic of being a doctor.

_It's a splendid profession, doctoring. A fellow has to fight something all through life…didn't somebody once define man as a fighting animal?…and I want to fight disease and pain and ignorance…which are all members one of another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the world…add a little to the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can get square with his obligations to the race…_

As for Anne…Gilbert's pen paused over the clean sheet of paper before him, as it had four months previously. Fortunately this time the nib was dry.

Finally Gilbert decided to simply send a third copy of the column to Anne, in the hopes that she would at least read it.

Autumn brought the Senior class of Redmond singing back to school.

Gilbert in particular was eager to be a Senior, and have the power to wilt Freshmen with a single stare. Now that they were beginning their last year at Redmond, was the time for beginning to reminisce, and as he and Charlie unpacked in their old room he did descend into nostalgia, though wishing he could have shared it with a tall, graceful young woman with red hair and grey eyes.

Gilbert's class had won the Arts Rush every year of their sojourn at Redmond, thanks to his management in the first year.

"Remember our first football game?" he said aloud.

"Yes, Captain," replied Charlie, grinning. "And you caught the ball and got piled on top of, and came up beaming with the football still in the crook of your arm, and a mouthful of mud."

"We won that game…" And the girls—Anne and Co.—had hugged "their boys", the ones they knew on the team, after the game; and Anne had pressed a congratulatory kiss to Gilbert's cheek, mud and all…Gilbert winced.

"And you got piled on top of before anyone realized you'd just thrown the ball to Ted, another time," he hedged, affecting laughter.

"I've probably still got cracks in my ribs from that," acknowledged Charlie ruefully. "Remember the day you were forced to wear that bonnet and apron, in order to join the Lambs?"

"That was quite fun!" protested Gilbert.

The "do you remember"-ing went on for a long time, and at length the boys turned in, in preparation for the first day of their Senior year, tomorrow.

Each year had been somewhat difficult, always harder than the last, and full of studying, late nights, balls, and larks alike; but this time the Seniors found they had better put their noses to the grindstone if they wished to graduate.

They now had so many worries on their hands: not only to get through college safely, but what to do once they had accomplished graduation. Many, Gilbert knew, were simply returning to their small towns, to be looked upon as people of knowledge—but not to use it.

_What a waste_.

Charlie planned to go to Rhode Island in the States to visit some relatives; Moody was settling to be a minister after all and a husband—Josie had accepted his proposal!

Philippa was engaged to a Jonas Blake—another minister-to-be. Stella Maynard was planning a move to Vancouver; and Priscilla Grant was going to remain in Kingsport and teach at a private ladies' college. All this was found out by proxy, as it was still uncomfortable to speak to the girls.

Christine Stuart would be going home to get married, and thank goodness for that. She was very beautiful, and very interesting, but…she was just…too…just _too_. Too chilly, too proud, too statuesque. Statues were all very well and pretty, but they were quite difficult to cuddle up against. Gilbert knew that Christine and he were considered a couple, and it was not as though either of them did anything either to discourage or encourage the rumors, but he didn't really care anymore. Nothing like that was important to him.

And Gilbert? His plans, involving a home and a wife, in addition to a profession, had been sadly disrupted, but the profession part, his dream of doctoring, was at least still possible.

As for Anne…

Gilbert shuddered at the remembrance of That Man. That Man would probably marry Anne, and come to live on the Island.

"_It's a pity Doctor Blythe never married," the women of Glen St. Mary might say, thirty or forty years hence. "Such an attractive young man when he came here, you know. And so kind. But he never seemed to care much for the women. A confirmed misogynist, that one."_

"_Unless he got jilted."_

"_Oh, he did! Crazy over some little mouse down in Avonlea, he was. Not such a mouse, though, you know, the way she treated him—don't you know how she treated him?! My dear, well, everyone knows! Actually she went and left him for a richer man!"_

_And they would shake their heads at the "little mouse's" folly, over their knitting and their tea…_

Gilbert cringed.


	16. Convocation

_**Chapter Sixteen: Convocation**_

_He will chase you for a while. But there's going to be a day when he's gonna stop running in circles around you. He's going to get over you and at that very moment you're going to wish you had let him catch you…_

-source unknown

It was a day of triumph for Gilbert, who took High Honors in Classics, and the Cooper Prize—a medical scholarship that had not been taken for the last five years.

As Gilbert dressed, he smiled, a little sarcastically, over an event in the English Literature class he'd still shared with Anne—a class taken out of fondness for the subject, and not for its usefulness in the medical field. When Carlisle Cullen had stumbled over the word "chrysanthemum" in his reading—no doubt it was only a lack of sleep—Gilbert had glanced up briefly, thinking of a long-ago incident involving the spelling of that flower, and met Anne's eyes for one brief moment, before she looked away again.

Speaking of flowers, the night before Convocation, he had arranged to send flowers to Anne—not as a token of continued hope, but as a nod to the day they had worked and hoped and dreamed for together, for so many years. The flowers, lilies-of-the-valley, were Gilbert's favorite, and one of Anne's many preferences, and the florist assured him that they symbolized "a return of happiness".

Of course Gardner would probably send Anne flowers too—something much more showy and expensive, like red roses, or orchids, or even violets—but it wasn't as though he really expected Anne to wear them, after all…

So it was with shock and triumph that, as Anne walked past Gilbert on the platform, he saw the small white flowers, in the shining masses of her hair and in her hands!

And for the first time in over a year, Gilbert truly grinned to himself, feeling at peace with the world, especially when Gardner passed them both, looking quizzical.

His spirits thus buoyed, Gilbert walked up to Anne at a moment when she was alone at the graduation dance that night. "Anne, would you like to dance?"

"My dance card is full," said Anne quickly—too quickly, not looking Gilbert even in the face.

"And besides, Gil Blythe," said a voice; Anne and Gilbert both turned to find Lucie Evans, a well-to-do Senior known for her tactlessness, smiling patiently upon Gilbert. "Besides, as Anne's old country chum, you ought to know she can't dance with any other boy tonight—" frowning as Gilbert appeared confused. "Well, don't you know she and Roy Gardner will prob'ly announce an engagement soon?"

"Thank you, Lucie," said Anne acidly.

Lucie waved her champagne glass in acknowledgement. "Of course, Annie dear. Always glad to be of service."

Gilbert didn't wait to find out if Lucie's careless statement was true. Hurt and angry, he went to find Christine, who readily accepted his dance offer.

With Christine, Gilbert even endeavored a little to enjoy himself.

That is, until he caught sight of Gardner, leading Anne out of the ballroom, in the direction of the small pavilion in the park.

His heart clenched within him. So it was really going to happen—so Gardner was really going to ask Anne…to…

As soon as the polka Christine and Gilbert had been dancing ended, Gilbert went furtively out into the park.

It was dim outside, the sun having just set, but Gilbert could make out a pair of people standing alone in the pavilion, the taller one clasping the other's hand between his. Gilbert felt another pang as he turned away, a few boyish tears coming to his eyes once again.

Everything _was_ slipping away from Gilbert. Anne would go on to be a rich woman, the queen of a buzzing social circle, in New York or even if the couple stayed in Kingsport. Better than the wife of a poor Island doctor. At least she would be happy…?

It was not very comforting.

And besides, "Anne Gardner" sounded horrible.

When again Gilbert dared to look he saw that Anne sat by herself, staring out to sea with her back to Gilbert. There was nothing in her posture to suggest unhappiness.

But as Gilbert walked towards the pavilion—hoping to "accidentally" come across Anne and be one of the first to congratulate her at least, she stood just then and _ran away_, down another path. As she ran, something glittering fell from her purse and lay upon the gravel.

"Anne!" But she was too far away to hear.

As Gilbert approached the bauble, his insides contorted painfully for a third time that night.

The little pink enamel heart lay between the pebbles, winking dully from under the dust caused by Anne's departure.

And as Gilbert picked it up, he could see that the chain had been snapped.

And had anyone else been in the park ten minutes later, they would have seen a young man hunched over with sobs, in the little pavilion by the sea.


	17. Working and Waiting

**I have some good and bad news, although I am amused at being sure that for me both pieces of news are somewhat undesirable.**

**Your bad news is that next weekend I will be in Hawai'i. So no update. Sorry. I didn't know, or perhaps was pretending I didn't. MERRY CHRISTMAS ahead of time.**

**And your good news is that due to a snag in my reasearch (among other things), the third story in the _Blythe Spirit_ series IS NO LONGER BASED OFF OF _ANNE OF GREEN GABLES: THE CONTINUING STORY_. Instead we will resume a few days before the wedding (Gilbert gets such a lousy deal in Anne of Windy Poplars, and I'm afraid that while I am sure I have the imagination, I do not have the time, to cobble together those three years from Gilbert's point of view.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Seventeen: Working and Waiting**_

_Physician, heal thyself. _

–New Testament_, Luke, IV, 23_

In Four Winds Harbor, P.E.I., there was a small harbor town by the name of Glen St. Mary, which we know of already, because Gilbert's summer of the previous year had been spent there.

Gilbert sat once more at the spare room desk in his great-uncle David's house; he was again writing a letter, this time to Geoffrey Gleeson. And after much deliberation, and much ruining of paper…again…a long letter would be sent to Green Gables—care of Dora Keith, who was by now twelve.

_I'll be in Avonlea between terms at medical school, and then off to Glen St. Mary. I shall board with Uncle David—I wanted to search for my own lodgings, but my aunt wouldn't hear of it—I guess it's neither safe nor moral to leave a "bachelder" by himself in the Glen, what with all the matchmaking mothers._

_They needn't really worry, though. After what happened with Anne Shirley, it isn't really as though I'm overeager to make the acquaintance of eligible young women, is it?_

_Tell Mrs. Gleeson I'm sorry I won't be able to visit again next month. Tell her I'm even sorrier that if I ever return, it certainly won't be with Anne Shirley!_

But scarce weeks later, Gilbert stood once more in the dusty antiques shop, a small blue enamel box in his hands.

He didn't know what had possessed him to return to Bolingbroke. He wasn't visiting the Gleesons—they didn't even know he was in town. He didn't know what he didn't know.

He knew only that after finishing his letter to Geoffrey Gleeson, he had laid down his pen and said aloud: "I must go to Bolingbroke."

Perhaps it was to offer the amethyst pendant up as a wedding gift. Who knew?

"Oh!" said Gilbert aloud, the box slipping from his fingers.

But it landed on the table, not the floor, sighing with relief, Gilbert picked up the box, which had fallen upside down, and reached to scoop the contents back inside as he idly read the name penciled onto the rougher, unfinished bottom.

_B. Shirley._

The surname "Shirley" had smudges round it, as though the owner had married, had erased her old name and written in the new.

As though her maiden name had been "Willis."

Four months later Gilbert was in Kingsport, at Redmond again, and studying hard. He was taking the "quick" medical course; that is, in two years instead of four. No one could have said why he was so rushed; but as he assured his anxious parents, after all, he had taken the teaching course at Queen's in half the time, so why not now?

The second reason was that his work, one of two passions created as a young teenager, was now the only passion left to him.

This time around, Gilbert still "roomed" with other fellows, just not Charlie or Moody…who were not becoming doctors, anyways. Miles and Richard were amiable men, but the fact that they all three were from different parts of Canada, as well as their strenuous schedules—they were all three angling to finish in two years—somewhat hindered their intimacy.

Between stricter professors even than before, weekly tests, studies made upon cadavers, pages and pages of nightly reading from _Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body_, lectures, and the like, Gilbert could not even justify coming home to Avonlea for the November and December weekends leading up to Christmas. He had examinations—first thing in January—to prepare for.

Richard and Miles both went home for several weeks at the end of November, but Miles came back early to study, too.

"Cold weather," commented Miles. Their living quarters boasted no stove, and a poky fireplace, which smoked into the room, instead of up the chimney where it was supposed to go, if fed with wood instead of coal.

"Yes," agreed Gilbert wearily, as he slumped back from his notes, rubbing his eyes and wondering if he'd broken some sort of record by being up three days straight. "Lend us some coal, will you?"

Miles took a quick inspection of the coal-hod. "None left," he groaned.

In another week Richard arrived, and fed the fire with a _deus ex machina _of charcoal, but in at this time also came school again. The students proceeded to performing minor operations upon live people.

One day in late December Richard was "home" alone, writing an essay…Miles having gone out to buy dinner…when the door creaked open and Gilbert staggered into the room.

"Gil Blythe!" exclaimed Richard, striding over. "Are you all right? You look horrible."

Gilbert sank onto the bed. "I _feel_ horrible."

"Are you ill? Shall I fetch water? Wine?"

"…no." Gilbert scrubbed absently at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I've got just an abominable headache. Richard…" he looked up at his roommate, his eyes bright and intense with pain, "Richard, we lost Letty Collins today."

Though Gilbert's eyes were squeezed shut again, he could hear Richard's sharp intake of breath, and felt Richard pat his shoulder clumsily. Little Letty Collins, eighteen years old but small and frail for her age, had been being treated for scarlet fever for the past month. Gilbert especially had been working with her; that was why the blow shook him so hard.

"God, I can't do this anymore," Gilbert said loudly, lying down.

Soon he was asleep. Concerned, Richard brushed untidy hair off his roommate's forehead—and drew his hand back in alarm. The man's forehead was burning hot!

"Hallo all!" cried Miles, coming in with his arms full of victuals; Richard tried to hush him, but it was too late; Gilbert awoke, smelled the food, and rolling over on his side as a wave of nausea overtook him, vomited over the edge of the bed.

"Why, Gil!" exclaimed his mother a week later, smothering him in kisses—that would be something to explain to Miles and Richard, asphyxiation by affection. "You look like dying."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Mother." Gilbert smiled wanly. Apart from the time he had vomited, he felt all right—"I'm only just a little tired"—and attributed the strange event to a bout of stomach upset.

The Blythes spent a quiet Christmas at home, and despite that fact it might have been a nice Christmas, except that Gilbert felt something was wrong—something was missing. Then he remembered, with a horrible pang, that it was another Christmas during which he would not be running down to Green Gables on Boxing Day, presents in hand.

Why didn't he remember before? Gilbert felt terribly confused, and tears sprang to his eyes; he pressed his eyes closed very hard to suppress them, and succeeded, and now the room had a hazy glow, as though he were peering into the fire-lit room where he now sat, from outside—on the other side of the frosty windows. Funny, he felt as cold as all that, too.

Bewildered, his mind a tumult, Gilbert reached automatically for his hat and coat—and forgetting his scarf—as he normally did in times of trouble, and stepping out into the frozen outdoors, wended his way towards a place which had always before been able to calm him in times of discomfort…

This time, the cold salt water which crashed and ran against Gilbert's shoes and coat, numbing his body, felt chillier than ever—last time he had come to the seashore, after all, it had been spring, not winter—but Gilbert didn't care. He instead stared miserably out to sea, wishing, like a moody Tom Sawyer, that he could be drowned without undergoing the painful process devised by nature.

Gilbert's mind and senses, as well as his hands and legs, had begun to go numb from the freezing air and water. It would be two hours before Pacifique Buote, the Blythes' hired man, finished his search for Gilbert by finding him sprawled unconscious on the soaked sand.


	18. The Heaviest Mourning

**I'm posting this chapter both as a Christmas present and as a peace offering, seeing that I will be abroad from tomorrow until the fifth of January. Merry Christmas to everyone, except Gilbert, who, it would seem, is not currenlty enjoying himself; and especially Merry Christmas to R., S., J., J., and another S. if he kept his promise.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Eighteen: The Heaviest Mourning**_

_There's another—not a sister—in the happy days gone by,_

_You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;_

_Too innocent for coquetry—too fond for idly scorning,—_

_O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!_

_Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen_

_My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison)_

_I dreamed I stood _with her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine_

_On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!_

A tall, curly-haired youth stood upon a platform, expostulating passionately, as yet unaware that his chosen goddess, though present in the audience, was deep in the midst of a novel.

The scene changed.

"Gilbert!" Anne opened the door and flung her arms tight around her best friend. "It's been forever since you came down to Green Gables. Marilla has been asking after you."

The first thing that alerted Gilbert to any strangeness was her voice—soft and high, as it had been when they were teenagers, before Anne's voice had become lower as an adult.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come before," he said, releasing her. "Circumstances detained me." And then he stared. "Anne—you look different!"

"Different?" Anne cocked her head to one side.

"Yes…" _You look about six or seven years younger._ Gilbert blinked hard, but Anne was still shorter and more girlish than last he'd seen her.

"I didn't think you'd want to see me," he confessed bluntly.

Anne snorted with incredulous laughter. "Silly Gil! Of course I'm always thrilled to see you. You're my best friend."

"Well, yes, but…" Maybe Anne was willing to forget about what had happened between them that spring, but he felt obliged to bring it up. "You told me never to speak to you again. Not in so many words, but—"

Again Gilbert was stunned by Anne's chuckles. "No, I didn't." As Anne dragged Gilbert through the vestibule, Gilbert, who was still blinking vigorously, crashed into the side table. Staggering, he caught ahold of the polished wood surface—and found himself staring into the hall mirror.

He beheld a long-limbed _boy_, with ridiculously curly hair that was still proudly sported under a grey cap; a nose that was still too broad for the cheeky face it belonged to; a striped shirt that clashed oddly with a home-knitted sweater vest.

"I'm dreaming," said Gilbert aloud. "I am most definitely dreaming."

Anne said nothing. Where was Anne? Gilbert whirled around. Oh, there she was, wearing a fluttery blue dress that Gilbert had once complimented her on at a Redmond social.

Anne suddenly morphed into Marilla, who danced a gavotte with Moody Spurgeon around a large hall, composed entirely of stone-carved cats. Gilbert watched them, with a vague air of interest, for a while before deciding to go looking for Anne and his hat, both of whom had mysteriously disappeared.

The cats all had doorways opening out of their mouths, their lolling tongues cleverly made into flights of stairs. Gilbert chose a cat that looked decidedly like Anne's Rusty, and ascended a flight of stairs that seemed to go forever and ever.

At the top of the stairs Gilbert found a church in which a wedding was taking place.

"Anne Shirley," Reverend Allen was saying…Hadn't the Allens gone to the States? "Do you take this man, Royal Gardner, as your lawfully wedded husband?"

"No," breathed Gilbert, horrified.

"I do," said Anne calmly.

"If any one has proof or reason as to why this marriage must not take place, speak now or forever hold your peace," intoned Reverend Allen.

"No!" shouted Gilbert, over and over again. "No! No! ANNE! NO!"

But no one turned to look; no one moved…the room began to get warm, then colder and colder…

"Anne!" Gilbert shot straight up in bed, gasping for breath.

"Gilbert!" exclaimed his mother, leaping into the room. "It's a bad dream you've had. Lie down again."

Gilbert didn't lie down; he looked around the room in shock. "Mother, what am I doing back home? I was just in Kingsport."

Mrs. Blythe shook her head. "Gil, Richard Willig brought you back home from college a week and a half ago."

It made no sense to Gilbert. "But I'm supposed to be at school."

"You're ill. Gilbert, you have the scarlet fever."

"No, m'not." Gilbert pressed her hand to his forehead. "Look, no fever. I'm as cool as can be."

His mother gave him an odd look. "Your forehead is burning."

And that was all Gilbert could remember for a time. Between delirious dreams and feverish nights, occasionally Gilbert was conscious, but too weak to open his eyes and prop himself up anymore. Conversations, held mainly outside Gilbert's bedroom door as far as he could struggle to make out, drifted in and out of his hearing.

"…unusual case, Mr. Blythe. Usually the patient begins to improve by…"

"…done a great deal already."

"The rash hasn't begun to fade yet…"

"…must DO something, John!"

"…very little chance of his recovery, I fear."

Up until now Gilbert had not really thought of what the people were saying, nor what it meant, but the last snippet of sentence sluiced into his fevered mind better than any cold compress smoothed over his forehead.

_I am going to die._

This revelation might once have troubled Gilbert, but in his moment of lucidity, he felt quite peaceful and complacent about this sudden inevitability. Anne did not love him, and therefore he felt no regret about leaving the world behind.

At least, it would relieve any qualms _she_ felt about ending their friendship.


	19. Shocks All Round

**Hurrah! I am back from Hawaii and therefore you are getting your chapter, if a day late! In all honesty I prefer San Francisco to the tropics. I also picked up a copy of Mark Twain's journals when he was the Sandwich Isles (i.e. Hawaii's former name) correspondent for the Sarcramento _Union_, and being written by Twain, they are hilarious. I highly recommend.**

**This was my favorite chapter to write and read (and reread) (and reread) in _Unromantic Ideal_ so far.**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Nineteen: Shocks All Round**_

"_But, of course, the one I like best I can't get. Gilbert Blythe won't take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten he'd like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen Anne. I really ought to hate you and instead I love you madly…"_

-L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of the Island_

She sighed.

It was perfectly likely that Anne would be furious at her for making this visit—if she found out.

Well, it was likely Anne _would_ discover her mission, wouldn't she? And Gilbert wouldn't thank her either, because even if Anne _had_ been crazy enough to refuse both Gilbert _and _Roy Gardner, didn't mean that Anne was now _desperate_, now, did it?

She knocked without thinking, and then almost stepped off of the porch and ran away, but—no. _What if she was right?_

She waited anxiously as footsteps from inside the white-and-blue house indicated that her knock had been heard, twisting the beaded handle of her purse in her gloved hands.

Soon the door swung open and an older woman looked out at her—a woman whose pleasance and beauty as a young woman still showed now, twenty, maybe thirty years later. But the woman looked weary and sad.

"Mrs. Blythe?"

"Yes," said the woman, surprise showing on her face.

"Please, I've come to see Gil Blythe. I'm—a friend from Redmond, and I was visiting in Avonlea and heard about his…how he was doing. Please, may I see him?"

The woman stared at her, obviously wondering what such a smartly-dressed young woman was doing in their rural town; then, collecting herself, opened the door wider to let her in. "You're lucky, miss—?"

She supplied her name to Mrs. Blythe. "But please, don't tell him it's me. I want to surprise him."

"You're fortunate you came now. The doctor says he's not contagious any more, but still very ill. I think he's awake." Mrs. Blythe sighed and shook her head. "He's got the Blythe constitution in his favor, but Doctor Spencer says Gil may—may—" she could not go on, and began to cry.

Never one to stand on cermony, she embraced Gilbert's mother. "Everything's going to be _fine. Gil is going to get better_," she said, a promise as much to herself as to the older woman.

Mrs. Blythe seemed to be amazed by her forced optimism, however, with a watery smile she led her upstairs. The older woman left noiselessly, and she was left to stare sadly down at what had once been dashing, confident—lively—Gilbert Blythe. His cheeks, which had even at college retained traces of baby fat, had hollowed; his entire appearance was one of gauntness, and his face was drenched with sweat.

It was too much for her sentimental heart. Already weeping, she dragged the only chair in the room up to Gilbert's bedside and, stripping off her gloves, laid a hand on his limp wrist. "Gilbert…Gilbert, wake up."

Gilbert's eyelids fluttered weakly, and he squinted up at her.

She smiled a little through her tears. "Hello, Gil."

His eyes widened with recognition. Struggling to sit up, he finally had to content himself with propping himself up on one elbow. "Philippa—Gordon!" His voice was raspy, barely above a whisper. "Or…is it Philippa Blake?" Even sick, Gilbert's eyes were bright with recollection—or tears? or fever?

It was a train of thought too grim for gay Philippa to follow, so she instead smiled gently. "No, not yet. I'm visiting with Anne these two weeks, before Jonas and I are married. I…I was there when she found out you were ill."

Philippa paused, pressing her eyes closed for composure, which caused three more tears to squeeze out. "Gilbert, we all thought she was going to faint."

She didn't think it was _her_ duty to tell Gilbert that Anne had not slept, nor eaten, in the three days since they'd heard the news…that she spent every day locked up in her room,

_O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;_

_And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,_

_And "Mother! Father!" and then on "Gilbert" cries,_

_And then falls down again_...

Philippa was quite sure that neither Mr. and Mrs. Shirley, nor Gilbert, had been in the original Shakespeare, but Anne was obviously driven further to distraction by the fact that her parents had after all _died_ of the same fever Gilbert now struggled under; and Miss Cuthbert and Mrs. Lynde had taken to listening outside her door for any sound, and tiptoeing away mournfully, shaking their heads dolefully at Philippa.

But occasionally Philippa had been allowed in, and she elaborated upon this now. "For the last three days, she's been alone in her room, writing and writing. 'I'm writing about Avonlea,' she says, over and over, 'just like he told me to—without any "high-faluting mumbo-jumbo".'"

The last phrase elicited a weak smile from Gilbert, as though at an inside joke. Philippa pressed on.

"She's not taken a real break from that manuscript since. I daresay she's trying to finish it before you get well, and present it to you as a wedding present."

"Philippa…there's not…going to be…any wedding."

"Yes, there will," said Philippa fiercely, though if Doctor Spencer, with his nasty diagnosis, was right, Philippa unfortunately knew better. "You'll be well soon, and then you and Christine will be happy, and…" Philippa trailed off, as Gilbert shook his head at her sadly.

"No…I won't. I heard Doctor Spencer…talking to my…parents…and I can tell…Philippa…you've been told as…well." Gilbert swallowed, wincing as though it was a painful action. "Besides…even if…she weren't already…engaged…it wouldn't be fair…to…Christine."

"Already engaged?" repeated Philippa blankly. "What do you mean, Christine Stuart is already engaged?!"

"To someone…from her hometown…"

Philippa looked upon her friend with abject shock. "Do you mean to tell me you've used her abominably for the last two years, Gilbert Blythe?" she asked, a little sharply.

"S'my best friend's…sister," explained Gilbert, and went on to tell astonished Philippa that even if he had, at the time, been more than happy to cause Anne to be jealous, he had never loved Christine! "There could never be…anyone for me…but Anne."

"Well!" exclaimed Philippa in amazement. "I declare you've both made a mess of yourselves these last two years!"

Gilbert's brow furrowed. "…both?"

Philippa grinned, really grinned, now, clutching Gilbert's hand in her excitement. "Oh, my goodness. This is better than novels."

Apparently convinced he would get no more explanation from her, Gilbert sank back into his pillow. "Tell Anne…I'm sorry I can't…come to _her_ wedding…"

Philippa waved her hand at him. "Gilbert Blythe, you ninny. I'm trying to tell you that there'll be no wedding for Anne either."

"What!" and Gilbert spoke, and sat up, with such force that Philippa almost fell out of her chair. "Did he jilt her? _Did Gardner jilt her?_"

"N-no," stammered Philippa, who had never been so surprised out of her wits as she was now, since Gilbert's face was dark with anticipatory indignation. "Anne thought she loved Roy, and he proposed, and she refused him."

"Oh," said Gilbert lamely, lying down again. He was obviously disappointed that he no longer had any excuse to attack Roy.

Philippa seized Gilbert's hands again. "Anne doesn't know I've visited, and I'm not going to tell her. But Gil, don't you see? You _have _to get better. You _have_ to try again."

After Philippa had left Gilbert lay in his sickbed, grinning foolishly up at the ceiling.

So far, he had not put up much resistance against this deadly disease; he had felt, if he had the opportunity to die, this was it, and no turning back; but the news of Anne's not being engaged had thrown him into the realization that he MUST and WOULD get better.

By chance Gilbert glanced at the calendar that hung by his bed; the date was the 19th of February, his twenty-fourth birthday.


	20. The Most Romantic Place In the World

**New Poll! And goodbye until February 7th, which is when I will be publishing the third story, _The Lightest Heart_. Meanwhile, I hope you will read _A Dreadful Collection of Memoranda_, the story of another famous literary _boy_, who after all was in circumstances much worse than Gilbert's...**

**-M.R.**

_**Chapter Twenty: The Most Romantic Place In the World**_

_The only thing that haunts me is the tale of the two who lived together for fifty years and hated each other all that time. I can't believe they really did. Somebody has said that "hate is only love that has missed its way." I feel sure that under the hatred they really loved each other…just as I really loved you all those years I thought I hated you…and I think death would show it to them. I'm glad _I _found out in life._

-L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of Windy Poplars_

In fact as well as in fiction,

_In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,_

but not _too_ lightly, for the spring is when an epidemic of love and courtship breaks out in society, manifested in fits and bursts and spasms of engagements and marriages.

On the first of March—the first day, since a bemused Doctor Spencer had explained to Gilbert's even more amazed parents, that he had rallied and was on the mend, that he had been let out of the house!—on this first day, then, of March and of freedom, Gilbert strolled down the lane to Green Gables, and came upon a startled Anne, who was sitting on the porch step with her lap full of flowing green fabric.

"I've come to ask you for one of our old-time rambles through 'September woods' and 'over hills where spices grow'," he said calmly. "Supposing we visit Hester Gray's garden?"

For a brief, transient moment he thought that Anne's face had been lit up by a wild joy—but the next second her expression was unreadable as she said, "Oh, I wish I could, but I really can't, Gilbert. I'm going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, you know. I've got to do something to this dress, and by the time it's finished I'll have to get ready. I'm so sorry. I'd love to go."

Gilbert schooled his face also to betray no sign of his reaction to her answer. "Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?"

"Yes," haltingly, "I think so."

"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should otherwise have to do tomorrow." Oh, if she only knew! "So! Alice Penhallow is to be married tonight? Three weddings for you in six months, Anne—Philippa's, Alice's, and Jane's."

Anne and Gilbert neither of them knew that Romney and Lucinda Penhallow would reconcile that night, swelling the list of victims…and all because Anne would be mistaken for Lucinda.

"I'll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding."

"You were ill, though." There was something strange in Anne's tone; Gilbert glanced up, but her face was averted as she continued, "And, besides, you really can't blame her when you think of the tremendous Andrews connection who had to be invited!" Anne chuckled. "The house could hardly hold them all. I was only bidden by grace of being Jane's old chum—at least on Jane's part. I think Mrs. Harmon's motive for inviting me was to let me see Jane's surpassing gorgeousness!"

"Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn't tell where the diamonds left off and Jane began?" Gilbert laughed, too, as he referred to Diana Barry's—Wright's—words to his mother a few days before.

"She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was _very_ happy, and so was Mr. Inglis—and so was Mrs. Harmon!"

"Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight, then?" casting a deceptively casual glance at the pretty, frothy mass of green in Anne's lap.

"Yes; isn't it pretty?" asked Anne, unconscious of his scrutiny. "And I shall wear starflowers in my hair."

She probably heard his intake of breath—he was thinking of how beautiful she would look; but by the time Anne would have looked up Gilbert's back was turned and he was heading out the gate. "Well, I'll be up tomorrow, then. I hope you have a nice night."

Gilbert walked home, got the buggy, and drove to Charlottetown, where he carried out "something he should otherwise have to do tomorrow"; never mind what it was just yet, but there was a suspicious small boxy package secreted safely in his bedside-table drawer the next day as he and Anne walked into Hester Gray's garden.

Once again she was wearing green—not the dress from the wedding, but the green dress he'd complimented Anne on at that Redmond ball, the night Gilbert had seen Royal Gardner for the first time—a night which he shut from his mind. Gardner was over and done with now.

"I brought you my book," Anne said, holding a real book out to him: marble-edged pages and embossed leather cover!

"_Avonlea Vignettes, by Anne Shirley_!" Gilbert read in surprise. He remembered now; Philippa had said something about Anne writing.

"I've been published, Gil. I wrote about Avonlea. Just as you said I should, 'without any high-faluting mumbo-jumbo'. And, and I dedicated the inscription to Marilla, and to Matthew…" she trailed off as he opened to the deication leaf. "And to you."

"'To Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, for their unfailing love and support, and…and to Gilbert, who inspired me with the idea in the first place'." Gilbert grinned. "I _told_ you this coud be a success!"

"Well, it's not a success, or not yet. It's not a classic or a romance, or anything important, but it's _mine_. It's all mine, and it's a dream come true! I think," Anne was saying dreamily, "that 'the land where dreams come true' is in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley."

"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert in a low voice.

Anne blushed and glanced away—anywhere—other than Gilbert's eyes, he noticed with a happy quiver in his stomach.

"Of course. Everybody has," she prevaricated. "It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about!

"What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns," Anne changed subject suddenly.

And Gilbert almost gave up. He was panicked. She'd tried to change the subject last time. Oh, dear. But there was the little package in his drawer—no. Even if her answer were the same, Gilbert needed to have things out, _now_.

Anne was still chattering. "I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful—"

"Anne." His voice was still low, and Gilbert's eyes caught hers and locked. "I have a dream," he began, anxiously, "and I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends…and _you_!

"I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?"

The expression on Anne's face—as if she were a lantern which someone had just lit—was answer enough—and Anne flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his coat. He sighed happily, his own arms encircling her waist, as they were always supposed to be.

"I thought you loved Christine Stuart," came a muffled reproach, at length, from somewhere near Gilbert's lapel.

"As though you didn't give me any reason to think you loved Gardner, you goose!" Gilbert chuckled, inducing Anne to emerge again. "Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. Her brother was a chum of mine at Queen's—remember Roger Stuart?—and just before I proposed to you the first time, he wrote me that his sister was coming to Kingsport the next spring to take music, and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of the…" he cast about for a suitable word "…most _interesting_ girls I've ever known.

"I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I didn't care," he laughed ruefully. "Nothing mattered much to me for a time, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. There was nobody else—there never could be anybody else for me but you. I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in school!"

Anne laughed aloud at _that_ memory. "I don't see how you could keep on loving me—when I was such a little fool!"

"Well, I tried to stop," Gilbert reassured her; then, when Anne raised an eyebrow, "not because I thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn't. And I can't tell you, either, what it's meant to me, these two years—to believe you were going to marry him—and be told every week by some busybody that your engagement was on the point of being announced!

"I believed it until one blessed day when I was still sick, and Philippa, apparently, sneaked out of Green Gables—"

"!!!"

"Yes, I know what you're thinking—and she gave me a scolding for being nonsensical, during which she told me there was really nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to 'try again.' Well, Doctor Spencer was amazed at my rapid recovery after that!"

Anne snuggled up to Gilbert. "I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert! Oh, I knew—I _knew_ then! And I thought it was too late!"

"But it wasn't, darling," said Gilbert happily, "and, oh Anne, this makes up for everything, doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us."

"It's the birthday of our happiness. How I have always loved this old garden of Hester Gray's! and now it will be dearer than ever!"

"But I'll have to ask you to wait a while," said Gilbert, becoming sober, and taking his beloved by the shoulders. "It's another year until I finish that medical course, and I'll need to find work to start with so I can support us. And even then, there'll be no 'diamond sunbursts and marble halls'…"

"I don't want sunbursts and marble halls," Anne shushed him. "I just want _you_. You see I'm quite as shameless as Phil about it! Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more scope for imagination without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for each other, and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now." Anne smiled up at him, beautifully.

And Gilbert became suddenly aware that he was still holding Anne by the shoulders, although not so far away as arm-length. If he leaned forward just a little bit more…

Boys spend time imagining their first kiss as well as girls; and later, when they had time to reflect upon it, Anne and Gilbert would have agreed that, at a select few times, imagination was nothing to reality.

**END OF PART II**

_**FanFictionNet presents an L.M. Montgomery fanfiction**_

_I'll show you wealth_

_You've never seen:_

_The sun and moon and shadows;_

_The rainbow's arch, the mountain stream,_

_The sunless clouds,_

_And the winter's dream…_

"_**UNROMANTIC IDEAL"**_

_I'll play you sounds _

_You've never heard:_

_The waterfall, the willow;_

_The thunder of the hummingbird,_

_The whisper of the snow…_

_**Story by **__**Morte Rouge**_

_What if you never know_

_How much you cared_

_Till you are parted_

_By a stormy sea?_

_**and **__**based upon Lucy Maud Montgomery's novel **__**Anne of the Island**__** (1915)**_

_How could I let you go?_

_How could I bear_

_My life without you_

_Here,_

_With me…?_

_**in conjunction with**_

_The world's a door that's open wide_

_Because you're here beside me_

_And with the moon and sun to guide me,_

_**Kevin Sullivan's movie adaptation "Anne of Green Gables: the Sequel" (1987)**_

_Now our hearts_

_Can fly!_

_Now our hearts_

_Can be free…_

_**Credit Song: "Here Beside Me" by Hayley Westenra**_


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